The Kidnapping
by Don'tSleep
Summary: Sherlock has been kidnapped by Moriarty. Will he be saved? T for minor gore. Taken from a roleplay between me and a friend


Sherlock: I picked up the air cannon, compressed hydrogen, dry ice, and PVC pipe on the way home today -SH

Where are you? -SH

It might be dangerous -SH

Watson: I told you.

I'm at the hotel.

Sherlock: Meh. Mycroft remodeled the flat for us. -SH

Come back -SH

Watson: Mycroft?

How did that work out?

Sherlock: I solved a case. That could have overturned the government. It was easy. And dull. -SH

Watson: No, no... I'm talking about the remodeling of the flat.

Sherlock: I threatened him with mummy. XD -SH

Watson: But how does it look?

Sherlock: I don't know, I haven't been back there in 3 days. -SH

Watson: I can only hope he cleaned up the mess you leave.

Sherlock: I never leave a mess. I level the place. -SH

Watson: Right, I'll check out and return my things to the flat.

Sherlock: Awww...You're fun to text with. -SH

Watson: What does that have to do with anything?

Sherlock: If you're back to the flat, you can't text with me. -SH

Watson: So you prefer not being able to see me?

Sherlock: No. I'm not in the flat. -SH

And texting when you're in the flat and I'm not is strictly prohibited. -SH

Watson: Why is that exactly?

Sherlock: I haven't set up the anti-tracking field yet. -SH

Or the anti-hacking one either. -SH

Watson: ... I'm in the flat.

Mycroft has no taste when it comes to colors.

But everything else is very nice.

Sherlock: Man, you wrecked my cover. I was tracking Moriarty. Just for fun. And if Mycroft painted ANYTHING maroon, I will kill him. -SH

Did he? -SH

Please tell me he didn't. -SH

Watson: Actually he used a deep royal blue.

Sherlock: EXCELLENT I might get him cookies. Or fudge. Or brownies. Or just a bag of sugar. That's my favorite color! Why did he do something nice? He wants me to solve a case. Hope it isn't boring. Again. -SH

Watson: It couldn't be that Mycroft was just being nice for the sake of being kind to his brother? Is that so impossible?

Sherlock: Yes. -SH

Watson: Actually ignore I ever suggested that.

Sherlock: It's been fun, this little game of ours... -JM

Don't you want your little...friend back, John? -JM

Watson: Oh, God. What?

What do you want?

Sherlock: Sherlock's been yelling for you... -JM

Quite loudly... -JM

Watson: .. Answer my qyestion.

Sherlock: And what do I want? Entertainment, of course. -JM

Watson: And how exactly to you expect that from me? Isn't Sherlock far more entertaining than me? It doesn't make much sense to use your favored "playmate" as bait.

Sherlock: But you...you're his pet. And I have to train you to come when called. Also, it may not be easy to save my pet from me. And you are entertaining... -JM

And Sherlock...I proved him to be ordinary. I just want to see if the man who can put up with him is really ordinary after all. XD -JM

Watson: Let me guess, you're going to leave me to figure out where you are and come save Sherlock?

Sherlock: How on EARTH did you guess? XD -JM

Watson: Which is all going to end up being a trap with some life or death twist to it.

Sherlock: Only if you aren't entertaining...-JM

Watson: You going to give any hints? Or have you already and I just need to notice them?

Sherlock: You know precisely where I am. Look at your texts. -JM

Watson: You're right. I know precisely where you should be.

Sherlock: Where? XD -JM

Watson: Sherlock would never pick up anything if it wasn't on the way to wherever he is and he did say he was coming home. Therefore, you are somewhere between Baker Street and Apollo Avenue unless you have moved him.

Sherlock: Hmm...You might need to join the game...officially. -JM

Watson: Expect to see me soon.

Sherlock: Oh really...I hope so. -JM

Watson: Even if you did move him I'm going to check. I would take a plane and tear the Great Wall of China down brick by brick if I thought it would keep Sherlock safe. And when I find you, I fully plan on doing the same.

Sherlock: I want to burn the world. Watch it, PET. -JM

Watson: ... Do I seem to care about anything you want?

Don't patronize yourself.

I have Sherlock for that.

Sherlock: XD He is annoying, even when he's screaming. -JM

Watson: Sherlock wouldn't be screaming for no reason. What are you doing to him?

Sherlock: Wouldn't you love to know. And it's not me, it's...a few other people. XD -JM

Watson: You better hope, for your sake, that you're not there when I am arrive.

Sherlock: Oh, what makes you think I'm even here... -JM

Watson: Of course, you would never risk yourself to have a little fun. Even if Sherlock is normal at least he's not a coward.

Sherlock: Watson...ehehe I have your flatmate... -JM

Watson: So I've heard.

Sherlock: Don't you wanna come get hiiim? XD -JM

Watson: I'm attempting to do so.

Sherlock: If you're stuck in the clinic then Sherlock will be in even worse shape when you get here. XD XD -JM

Watson: I'm taking a day off. Believe me, I don't need any more prompting from you than I have already been given.

Sherlock: Sherlock stopped screaming a while ago...should I go check :D -JM

Watson: Don't you dare.

Wait a second.

Sherlock would never have gone to the store.

He would have gone to a warehouse where he can buy it for much less.

Closest one to our flat is on Andre Street.

Sherlock: You are so far off, you might not get to Sherlock in time. –JM

Sherlock: So...Found Sherly yet? -JM

Watson: I think you know the answer to that.

Sherlock: Of course...XD I still can't wait until you find him... We'll have such fun together! -JM

Watson: I wouldn't exactly call it fun.

Sherlock: I would. -JM

Watson: Good for you.

Sherlock: Have fun catching me :3 -JM

Watson: Dealing with you is anything but. Sherlock may enjoy it, but unlike the both of you I am not sadistic.

Sherlock: XD You were in Afghanistan as a doctor, you IDIOT -JM

Watson: Being able to treat a wound and see dead bodies isn't being sadistic. Being sadistic is causing or seeing them and not caring.

Sherlock: You had to choose which horribly wounded people you had to treat. -JM

And by extension, you killed some people through lack of treatment :P -JM

Watson: I tried my best to save who I could. I saved people, and only killed the enemy.

And right now, you are the enemy, you do realize that.

Sherlock: Oh...Feisty little kitten, aren't you? No wonder Sherlock keeps you...-JM

Watson: What did you just call me?

Sherlock: Sherlock's little kitten. -JM

Watson: I'm anything but a cat.

I'm not any kind of animal.

And I'm no one's pet.

Sherlock: Oh? Why do you put up with Sherlock? What do you do with him? Or rather, what does he do to you? XP -JM

Watson: I put up with him because he's my friend.

Sherlock: And nothing more? -JM

Watson: Certainly not. No matter what anyone claims we are just friends.

Sherlock: I have access to the security cameras...and telling Mycroft will not end well... -JM

Watson: That doesn't mean you found anything.

Sherlock: Hmmm...Shall I tell you exactly what you did on the 17th at 10 P.M.? -JM

Watson: Nothing beyond the usual?

Sherlock: If I could see you face to face, I'd see that little blush you always have when you lie ... -JM

Watson: I do not blush when I lie and unlike some people I don't memorize what happens at what exact time and date.

Sherlock: Have you found him yet?-JM

Watson: What did you do to him?

Sherlock: Wouldn't you love to know XD -JM

Watson: Do you know how much pain I can put someone through without making them die or pass out?

Sherlock: I know. But you have too many morals. XD -JM

Watson: Morals when it comes to decent people that deserve mercy. Who says you are one of those people?

Sherlock: Oh, be quiet. Go tend to your uke. -JM

Watson: I have no idea what that means and no desire to.

So are you happy now that you've had your "fun."

Sherlock: Oh, the game has just begun. Tell Sherlock "Queen to D-3". -JM

John broke his gaze from the phone, glancing around the room with his eyes furrowed. Whatever Moriarty had said couldn't mean anything good.

Moriarty giggled as he looked at the blurry images of John tending to Sherlock

Two men burst from the shadows surrounding the two men on the floor. John had been too busy texting Moriarty angrily and tending to Sherlock, who had been tied up, unconscious, on the floor, to notice that the two weren't alone

John was quick to react, slamming his back against the wall next to Sherlock and retrieving a gun. "Get down! Get down or I'll shoot!"

One of the men whipped out a small gun. Watson recognized it as a .380 ACP, one of the most deadly handguns, as well as the messiest. The man grinned evilly and pointed it at Sherlock, who made a small, strangled sound and crouched lower. His companion mimicked his movements.

John did his best to assess the situation, quick to understand he was outmatched here. Something must have been wrong with him, because normally he would have been able to react to their movements before both of them could have drawn weapons. Nothing to do about it now. With a quick glance at Sherlock he allowed the pistol to drop from his hands and onto the floor. The Afghanistan veteran placed both palms against the back of his head, trying to plan out a successful strategy against these two. If only Sherlock wasn't injured... It would all be so easy if he wasn't hurt!

The larger of the two said "Come with us. Make no sign to Mycroft that there's any trouble."

John made no sudden movements, tilting his head in Sherlock's direction to make who he was talking about clear. "At least allow him into a hospital. He's pretty badly injured and without proper bandaging up could go unconscious and add extra work for you two. As long as I'm in danger he won't do anything to risk my safety."

"No. We have doctors standing by, if both of you behave."

"Am I allowed to at least help him walk?"

"Just get moving. Keep your hands in sight at all times and stay away from the gun."

John slowly crouched, tucking his arm under Sherlock's and helping the other stand. He did all of this with a careful precision, never daring to risk anything that might be mistaken for a hostile movement. The men stepped aside, one gesturing at the door with his gun.

John obeyed the silent order, half carrying Sherlock. "Are you in so much pain you have to lay on top of me?"

Sherlock groaned, then whispered, "What makes you think I have to be in pain?"

John rolled his eyes, making his way through the open door. Haha. A car was waiting for them, an unmarked black one reminiscent of the ones Mycroft used so often. John approached it, leaning Sherlock against the car as he opened the door and sat down before ushering his friend inside. It might slow any exit he made from the vehicle but at least it would take less effort for the Holmes to get out when the time came.

The two men sandwiched John and Watson in the middle of the spacious back seat. Sherlock half-fell into John's lap. John supported Sherlock's head, refusing to allow him to completely lie on top of him. John's phone started playing "Stayin' Alive," Moriarty's ringtone.

John hesitated, glancing at the two burly men and opening his phone. One unread text.

Moriarty: Hello John. Like my little friends? -JM

Watson: Yes, I adore the men holding guns to my head.

Moriarty: All right, they love their rough-and-tumble play. Ask Sherly if he recognizes them. :3 -JM

Watson: John glared at the screen, feeling that he already knew the answer. He wasn't going to bother Sherlock any more than he had to. He already blamed himself for the damage that had been done to his friend.

Watson: Can I help you with anything or did you just want to gloat?

Moriarty: Oh, we'll meet soon enough. Remember, Queen to D-3. -JM

John closed the phone, stuffing it back into a pocket. What was the riddle behind it? What importance e did that phrase hold? The car had started and was whizzing by shops and houses. John had been too distracted by Moriarty's texts to mark their progress. John tried to relax as much as he could with his friend injured on his lap and two dangerous men on each side. He glanced out the black-tinted window, doing his best to try to do something amazing like Sherlock and actually figure out where they are. He wasn't capable of that, but trying didn't hurt. No one else in the car seemed in any way surprised or nervous. The driver, separated by a glass-and-wire screen, slouched low. The men just stared blankly out the windows. John looked over the two men guarding him first. They both wore black coats perfect for concealing weapons, likely having more than just one gun. Any person who had been thoroughly trained in self-defense would also keep a knife on them for its practicality in hand-to-hand combat. It was hard to tell if the driver had anything on him, in a position that hid most of his form from view.

One of the men shifted, showing John a pistol butt. In an unspoken gesture of menace, he rested his hand on it, then allowed his coat to fall back into place. He returned to staring seemingly idly out the window.

They clearly weren't trained well in the art of intimidation. If this one had been they wouldn't have showed him a weapon he hadn't known about. He would have shown him the other pistol he had already seen. These men were better armed, not trained.

A tense silence filled the car. The men waited for the car ride to be over. After about thirty minutes, they suddenly sat up straighter. John noticed this, taking that they were almost there. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, hoping the simple motion would jolt him awake.

Sherlock murmured, half-asleep against John's shoulder. The two men exchanged glances over the flatmates' heads, then, as one, opened the car doors. John let out a sigh, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder again. "Sherlock, come on." He nudged him toward the door, not wanting to aggravate his wounds

The men stood outside another warehouse near the docks, seemingly guarding a large container. Gulls wheeled and cried, the only movement for about a half-mile in either direction along the river-front.

One Sherlock had gotten out, Watson followed. He did a quick look over of the detective's health, more for his own sake. Mrs. Hudson was going to be worried sick by neither of them had been home for three days.

Moriarty stepped out of the warehouse's half-open door, dressed, as always, in a neat Westwood suit. He grinned crazily. "So, how's your little vacation from work going, John?"

John looked at Moriarty, neither glaring nor emotionless. His eyes flashed with an emotion of some sort, but pinpointing it before it had disappeared was nearly impossible. "Well, my best friend was beaten up by a maniac, I got a gun pointed at my head, and now the maniac is after me. Yeah, great. Just great."

Moriarty grinned even wider, if that were possible. Most people were afraid of him, if they knew who he was. Perhaps this John wasn't so ordinary after all. "But we're going to have such fun, the three of us..."

John shook his head, not feeling the rage he had before. Now he just felt annoyance. It was like dealing with another, far less tolerable, Sherlock. "No, no. You will be the only one having fun."

Moriarty's smile slipped. His angry side showed through for a moment. He hitched the grin back into place. So few people dared to speak back to him. He'd enjoy breaking this John. "Do you know how long Sherlock lasted?"

John faltered for a moment, noticing the rage that hid beneath the surface. That was the difference. Moriarty was a little kid that wanted his way and would throw a fit if he didn't get it. Sherlock was a little kid that was persistent enough to never stop trying to matter what the punishment. "..."

Sherlock: Moriarty looked at John strangely for a moment. Why had John suddenly started taking him seriously? The moment passed. "An hour before he made a sound...about half an hour more before he started screaming. I'm afraid I can't tell you how long he would have screamed," Moriarty fake-pouted. "...He went hoarse after about forty-five minutes of calling your name."

John stared at him, no emotion clear on his face but eyes showing an un-measurable amount of rage. He looked back towards Sherlock, anger quickly replaced by guilt. He had taken too long finding him, This was all his fault.

"Oh, don't be sad." Moriarty said. "You'll have plenty more chances to play hero..." He grinned, insanity now worming through his eyes.

"If I was willing to get shot I would be able to kill you in exactly seven seconds with my bare hands." John finally spoke up, far more concerned about Sherlock than himself at the moment. He would have done it too if Sherlock wasn't there. Moriarty was even in the perfect position for him to snap his neck in two. He couldn't leave Sherlock just yet. That would be asking for the end of his only true friend.

Moriarty appreciated the pet's bravado. Only Sherlock had ever gotten away with speaking to him disrespectfully, and only because he was just too much fun. Bravado was respected, yes, but pure foolishness was to be eliminated. "Oooh, not very friendly." He spoke in a soft lilt, eyes half-shut. "Boys..." He snapped his fingers twice.

John removed Sherlock, placing him to sit against the wall. He simply glared at Moriarty, not expressing that he was going to fight back at all.

At least a dozen large men with various types of machine guns stepped out of the warehouse, one or two glaring at John.

This wasn't the first time John had been in a room with heavy weaponry. It did nothing do elicit fear in him. What would be done to him wasn't by guns, that much he could tell from Sherlock's wounds. They were just there to make sure he didn't resist.

Moriarty looked like a doll among the hulking brutes around him. But he knew they were scared of him, and that gratified him. Fear was better than respect. He stepped forward, grabbing some rope from one of his henchmen, not acknowledging him or his look of fear. "Now kneel, Johnny boy, or little Sherly gets hu-urt," he sing-songed, stepping forward calmly, holding out the rope and shaking it teasingly.

John exhaled through his nose to help calm the emotions running through him, sound easily heard in room. It was odd how quiet it was despite the amount of people. Moriarty was the only one talking. With one final glance at Sherlock, he obeyed despite the humiliation. There wasn't a point in looking up to glare as Moriarty, instead giving the floor a rather angry stare.

Moriarty tied John's hands, yanking the knots tight, giggling slightly all the while. He left a little tail of rope hanging off, like a leash. What fun! Both the male nuisances in his life, at his mercy. So far, Sherlock hadn't been doing anything but shake and whimper on the floor, lost without John's hand to hold. Moriarty resolved to keep a close eye on him: his henchmen were too stupid to know the mind games that Sherlock had tried to play with him in the first day of his captivity. With a last, vicious jerk of the ropes, he dropped John's hands and tip-toed over to Sherlock, who froze. Moriarty bent down and whispered gently in his ear, "Queen to D-3, pet."*He had to step back quickly, avoiding Sherlock's flailing fists. He turned to one of the larger men and motioned to Sherlock, a quick gesture. The man lifted Sherlock like a baby. Both Moriarty and the man seemed to take pleasure in the sight of the world's greatest detective, curled up and whimpering in the man's arms.

John watched the entire scene play out, fury masking whatever pain his hands would have felt from the tightness of the rope. "Sherlock..." He bowed his head, the humiliating feeling of utter defeat creeping over him. He didn't care about himself anymore. He just wanted Sherlock to be okay. By now that wasn't possible. His eyes drifted shut, trying to think. There had to be a way out of this. There was always a way. There had to be a way...

Moriarty signalled to the man carrying Sherlock. He nodded and walked briskly into the warehouse, an evil smile curling his lips. Moriarty himself walked over to John. His eyes were shut. Despair? Sadness? Fury? An interesting toy..."Come along, pet," Moriarty cooed, grabbing the bit of rope left over and leading John like a dog. The muscular men surrounding them escorted them into the warehouse.

John didn't have much time to plot before he was jerked forwards and forced to stand. Pet... There he was calling him a pet again. Everything he had done, Watson regretted. He could have alerted Lestrade of his actions, or anyone. No one knew he was out here with Sherlock. If he didn't save them, no one would.

Moriarty enjoyed this. Both the male nuisances...at his mercy. They walked into the dark warehouse together. The only light came from holes in the ceiling, some half-covered with tarps. Their steps echoed, making it sound as if there were a battalion of combat boots and a dozen neat business shoes, clack-clack-clacking along. John's footsteps were lost in the racket.

"Why so quiet? You've never been so...uncommunicative around Sherlock," Moriarty asked, genuinely confused. John always babbled about how marvelous Sherlock was and how his deductions were so amazing...He had Moran, but it just wasn't the same.

Ignoring Moriarty, a crazy idea came into John's mind. It was stupid, highly so, but in the adrenaline that came with he almost carried it out. His muscle tightened, prepared to attempt to escape. But before he could make the move, his eyes fell onto Sherlock. If John could grab a gun, get Sherlock somewhere safe, he might be able to hold them off or at least deal a little damage.

Moriarty worried for a moment...John had excellent training from his time in Afghanistan, and he would do anything to protect Sherlock. Good. "Awww...Is the little pet angry at the big bad wolf?" He whispered in John's ear, stepping back to gauge his reaction.

John narrowed his eyes to slits as Moriarty spoke to him. John assessed Moriarty in the same way that the criminal was assessing him. He took a step closer to Moriarty. The excitement that came before stupidity flooded through him, washing away all worries about it. With a quick movement, he kicked the feet out from under his foe, ducking to the ground along with him to avoid the bullet fire that should be coming any moment now. He grabbed onto the rope with his hands, maneuvering it best he could to wrap around Moriarty's throat. "You tell me."

The men stepped forward, stopping a few paces away in response to a hand signal from Moriarty. He grinned. His plan was perfect. Moran, up in the rafters, hidden in the shadows, readied his rifle. In less than ten seconds, a red dot was dancing on Sherlock's chest. The man still carrying him cleared his throat loudly.

John noticed every little sound, feeling like his senses were heightened. His head jerked in the direction of the man, faltering at the sight of the deadly red dot. He gave one last vicious tug, releasing the rope and pulling away to allow Moriarty a breath.

Moriarty was ... surprised. If he had been the one strangling Sherlock and Moran had been in the goon's arms, he wouldn't have hesitated to strangle Sherlock and make his escape. Then again, Moran was useful... "Sentiment," he breathed in John's ear.

John didn't so much as respond to Moriarty this time, eyes kept focused on Sherlock. How could he have forgotten him? At least he knew there was at least one sniper in the rafters now. The more information he had, the better chance he had of a successful escape. He had to keep calm, no more outbursts. With a level head he might be able to escape. Without... He was as well off as Sherlock.

Moriarty ambled away, confident enough in Moran's accuracy to turn his back on Sherlock. Both of the pets, playing with each other...he'd let this continue. But only if they played nicely. He giggled, back to John. The burly men surrounding him relaxed, weapons sliding back into sheaths. They stood at attention once more. Moriarty signalled one to grab John's leash and follow.

John stayed on his knees, not moving at all until once more yanked to his feet. Something about it was more demeaning than last time. Moriarty didn't even care enough to do it himself. He bit his bottom lip, holding back a foul word.

John seemed to be even angrier now. Why? Anyone would keep a sniper in the rafters to save their own skins. He'd ponder it later. "Now pet, we have a nice little playroom for you and Sherlock." Sherlock whimpered. "Now, John. Don't be angry. We'll have fun..."

Only now did John look back towards Moriarty, quickly returning his gaze to Sherlock and showing some concern. "Stop using we. It's clear that it's not true."

"Well, I'll have fun. And does it really matter if you have fun? Pet?" Moriarty felt a bit of anger curl through him, more than usual. How dare this insignificant being be disrespectful to him? How dare he show so little fear? Moriarty hitched his grinning, joking, creepy mask back on. "Just follow me..."

John noticed the flash, it wasn't for more but a few seconds, but Moriarty had once again shown anger. Rage meant mistakes, he had already endured it. If only he could make Moriarty do the same...

Control. He needed control. He needed to channel that rage into something...productive. Or destructive. Much more fun. "Now, I'm afraid Daddy can't play right now, so you have an early bedtime." A quick nod to the guards, and two split off to ready the cell he'd made not far from here. It was nearly impossible to break out of, but he was sure that John would see the 'nearly' part and exploit it. The remaining men tightened their phalanx around John, Moriarty leading, Sherlock still in the arms of the man at the back. He hadn't made a sound in some minutes. It worried Moriarty. Sherlock was no fun dead, and John might do something unpredictable for the memory of his friend. He made a mental note to have a doctor stand by during play-time.

John jerked away from the guard, too overpowered to do much. All that he cared was that the man's bulk was blocking his view of the detective. He just... Had to be patient and have faith in that stubborn jerk's ability to stay alive.

Moriarty noticed John's concern for the great detective. He'd been very quiet since Moran had trained a gun on him. Or so John thought. Perhaps that was John's key: protecting Sherlock came above all else. He resembled Moran in that respect. Moran had volunteered for the detective's kidnapping, knowing the power of Holmes the elder. Moriarty had refused: as few people as possible had to know his plans. Even fewer should carry the blame. Not him of course...prison was a waste of time.

John, Sherlock, and their guards arrived at a corridor of cells. John was slightly relieve to finally able to see Sherlock, only slightly but it was more than enough. All resistance disappeared, not giving so much as a slight tug against his bonds.

The men roughly led John into the cell. It was whitewashed imperfectly, so stains of the previous paint (red) showed through. A single, flimsy cot slumped in the corner. It contained nothing else. One of the men tied John's wrists to a leg of the rickety cot. The man who'd been carrying Sherlock half-dropped him on the floor near the door. The air whooshed out of Sherlock's lungs, leaving him to gasp like a fish on the ground.

John stumbled at the release, steadying himself against the wall. The sight of Sherlock lying so harmlessly on the ground worried him. "Come on, at least get him a doctor! He clearly isn't doing well, he hasn't even made a snarky remark." Watson pleaded, hoping that Moriarty just might consent.

Moriarty tilted his head. John was more right than he knew. Sherlock hadn't stopped making snarky remarks during his kidnapping, even after he was told to stop. The thought that his minions might have gone too far crossed his mind, then dissolved. He snapped his fingers impatiently at one of the smaller men, who blushed and fidgeted. After all, direct contact with the Boss was dangerous: you could end up rich or skinned. Literally. After a moment of clumsy fumbling in his pocket, he brought out a white box with a red Greek cross. Moriarty snatched it from him and tossed it to John. "You're a doctor." He smiled creepily, wondering what John's reaction could be.

John caught the box midair, hesitating before opening it. He didn't want it to end up being something dangerous. He doubted it was large enough to be anything of real use, which was kind of needed to help Sherlock in any way.

Moriarty, smiling like a psychopathic child opening Christmas presents, slammed the heavy, steel door. Producing an ostentatious ring of keys, he locked the door, sing-songing, "Morning will come soon enough, my pretties. And Sherly, D-3! Don't forget, darling!" Sherlock, breath regained, curled up into a lopsided ball at Moriarty's voice, favoring his left leg, twisted at an unnatural angle.

Mycroft: John tried to approach Sherlock once he knew it was safe, chain being just short enough to keep him from his friend. He reached out toward the detective, almost close enough to touch him. "Sherlock... It's okay." It was almost hard for him to believe a Holmes had been reduced to this. It was just a trick... It had to be. "Come here so I can help you."

Sherlock whimpered. Noise meant pain. And it's be just like Moriarty to record John's voice to get his hopes up, then dash them by hurting him again. He curled up as tightly as he could, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain shooting through his left side. A tiny part of his brain, the bit that still thought rationally, tried to damp down the pain. It failed miserably. He'd do anything, anything, just to make it stop...

"Please, Sherlock. Look at me. I promise you I can help you. It may hurt, but I can do my best to make it stop. I..." Watson paused, trying to think of some proof. What was something only he should know? Ask me something. Anything.

He didn't remember John ever saying those words in that tone of voice...and Moriarty couldn't have recorded more of John's everyday speech while Sherlock had been...away...since John didn't talk to Sherlock when Sherlock wasn't there...probably...his head hurt... his thought processes were down 45%... Almost without him noticing, he was wrapped around John, cuddling him like a teddy bear, hiding his face in John's jumper.

"Sherlock..." John found himself unable and unsure of how to react to Sherlock at first, quickly deciding to return the embrace. "It's okay. I'm here." The smell of tobacco hung in the air, clearly from the detective. He couldn't have smoked in at least three days. The smell being on him puzzled Watson, but he decided to ignore it for now.

Safe. He was safe. Even Moriarty and his minions couldn't hurt him now. John was scaary when he was angry. Like the case with all the pink...Or the one with the fake painting... He sighed happily, snuggling further into John's jumper, smelling juniper aftershave, pine soap, and the slightly musty odor of wool...No blood-smell. Good. Hurting his John was...wrong. He dozed off within seconds of John's half-heard murmurs of reassurance.

John placed a finger against Sherlock's neck, waiting until his pulse slowed to let him know he was asleep. With gentle care he moved Sherlock onto the cot, looking over his wounds and patching him up where necessary. As for him, he sat on the floor, back against the wall and he thought. He had to think of a way out. Several ideas raced through his mind, but before one could fully form the exhaustion of the day had caused him to doze off.

Moriarty was impatient. That was his biggest fault. His anger, he could channel. His psychopathy and enjoyment of others' pain were pros, not cons, in his line of employment. He still had to work on his impatience.

About seven hours after he'd watched the two lovebirds fall asleep, he summoned three minions and bade them bring Sherlock to the playroom and John to the viewing room. "Oh, and watch out for the short one. He can be feisty." He called after them.

John jerked awake at the sounds of footsteps, not having been all that asleep anyways. He sat there, blinking in a half awake half asleep state until the door of their cell was yanked open. At the screeching noise he stood, almost instantly wide awake. He eyed the three goons, instinctively stepping forward to inhibit their path to Sherlock. It was an unspoken, 'if you to get to him you have to go through me first'.

Sherlock woke up suddenly, the crashing of the door startling him. He reached out for John and couldn't find him. He started to panic. It had all been a dream John had never been there. Moriarty had hired an actor. He was going to be hurt for disobeying. He ignored the actor, still standing in the middle of the room, still playing his role. Sherlock curled up on the bed, protecting his head and vitals, ready for whatever punishment they had today. He involuntarily twitched when one of the men pointed a gun at them and growled "Move."

John didn't obey immediately, glaring at them. It was as if he was threatening to come after them if anything happened to Sherlock. He backed away, taking Holmes the younger's and and giving it a quick squeeze as he passed.

Sherlock jumped. Why was the actor still playing the part? Wasn't the contract only to get Sherlock to trust him, then hurt Sherlock? The actor's hand dropped away, and he walked out the door. Sherlock was a sociopath, but it was nice to have ... companionship for a while, even if the companion was an actor pretending to be his friend. He curled up and tried to fall asleep. He'd almost succeeded when the man who hadn't escorted the actor away stepped toward him. He shot up, pressing his back against the wall. The man was too close...

John tensed, watching the man intently. He wasn't planning on allowing him to so much as touch Sherlock if his friend was in a state where it would be so terrifying to him. His eyes flicked between the guards and Sherlock, waiting for one of them to make a move for him to decide if he should do the same. He only wanted the best for Sherlock. That's all that mattered. He was going to continue being the detective's friend no matter what the damage was to himself. It was the least Watson could do after what Sherlock had done for him.

Sherlock swayed in the man's arms, terrified of whoever was waiting for him wherever he was going. A particularly rough jostle and everything went psychedelic colors, then faded to black. Sherlock went completely limp, eyes rolled back in his head.

John tensed completely once Sherlock had been pulled out of view, knowing now that something could happen to him without being able to prevent it. He could attack. He was likely to be overpowered but it was only two this time, not too many. A lot less than before.

Sherlock woke up a few minutes later. His mind felt a bit clearer, still slightly muddled from pain, but he had enough control to summon a disdainful face when he had stopped blinking at the bare lightbulb's shine. Sherlock catalogued his condition and found 2 fractured ribs, a twisted ankle, a sprained wrist, 2 broken toes, burn marks on his lower legs, cuts on his arms and back, and some acid stains on his shoulders. He assumed that his lip was split and a cut lay somewhere on his head, judging by the sodden nature of his hair. He was also tied to a wall by his wrists and neck, with enough chain left over to sit down. Moriarty.

John entered the viewing room, two guards on either side. First thing he noticed was the massive amount of screens. There must have been cameras everywhere. He picked up a few places he recognized, reminding himself to stay cautious for the next time he planned an escape attempt.

Sherlock snapped his head around at the sound of footsteps coming from behind him. He immediately regretted it, his (possible) concussion giving a nasty throb. He closed his eyes, missing the entrance of a large man behind him. When Sherlock opened his eyes, the man was directly in front of him, frowning at an iPhone. "Busy checking FaceBook?" Sherlock asked, conveying all his irritation at this situation through snark. "Ummm...No. Texting is hard." the man grunted. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The man walked briskly to his arm and tore at the rope connecting it to the chair. Sherlock wondered: was he supposed to help the man text? Or was the dream of falling asleep on John...NOT a dream? He sincerely hoped it was. The man derailed Sherlock's train of thought and shoved the iPhone into his hand. "Text," he grunted.

John stared at the largest screen on the wall, transfixed on Sherlock's form. He could only hope he was okay... From the way it looked like he was actually talking, he assumed that was a yes. Almost at the same time Sherlock was handed a phone, he was given the same. A feeling of relief flooded over Watson, at least he could check and make sure he was alright. Sherlock, oh God. Please tell me you're okay. I swear, for a second thing about someone other than yourself and stop being drugged. -JW

Sherlock: I have obviously been thinking about someone other that myself. I did not antagonize the man in the room with me any more than usual. -SH

Watson: Wow, you must be so proud of yourself. Sorry for not being in the mood to be captured by a maniac and forced to take care of you too. -JW

Sherlock: I never forced you to take care of me. -SH

Watson: Well, if I didn't take care of who would? You certainly weren't. -JW

Sherlock: Mycr

John paused, raising his head to see that the phone had been forced away from Sherlock. That had been quick. Much quicker than he would have liked.

The bodyguard/thug pushed the phone out of Sherlock's hand, then struck his cheek for good measure. He picked it up and, frowning at the tiny virtual keys, laboriously sent a text, seemingly copying from another page.

Sherlock: Playtime.

John felt the phone vibrate in his hand, looking down to see the very discouraging text. That meant that the real torture was about to begin. Seeing it secondhand was but enough. But watching it happen...

Moriarty watched the play of emotions on John's face. Oh, the incorrect conclusions he would reach, with that silly little mind...He slunk closer, whispering breathily, "You know, you can play with Sherly, if you're lonely..."

John instinctively pulled away, showing nothing but disdain for Moriarty. He wouldn't ever dare speak aloud some of the things he wanted to do to him at the moment. Some of the things he would have done if he could.

"Oooh, little kitty doesn't want to play, does he? Maybe Sherly's other little friends will be more... forceful with his friend." Moriarty moved away, giggling. Psychological torture of both victims. And which would break first? Such fun!

"Don't you touch him!" John growled, carefully and deliberately pronouncing each word. He wouldn't be able to watch Sherlock endure torture. It would be easier for him to go through it himself than to watch. It was always easier risking himself.

"Oh, so you do want to play with him! Don't be too gentle...bye-bye!" Moriarty waved gayly at him as two large men grabbed his arms. This pet was so protective! Moriarty nearly squealed like a little fangirl at the thought of what was to come.

John didn't go all too easily, not sure if he wanted to join this play time or not. As soon as he was out of view of Moriarty, he decided it was much better to actually be able to try to protect Sherlock and ceased his struggles.

Sherlock waited for Moriarty to come in and berate him. Or Moriarty to come in and hurt him. Or one of Moriarty's minions to come in and hurt him. He was prepared for anything...except what happened. Some goon was dragging John in. But why wasn't he resisting? Wouldn't it be better to struggle and escape? What on earth was Moriarty doing? He cursed mentally. Thought processes still down 10%. Better keep his mind palace in good repair, or priceless knowledge would be lost from his hard drive...Focus, Sherlock. Focus. "John?"

John glanced towards Sherlock, hope surging through him. He wasn't cowering or babbling about anything. He was okay. He could maybe just figure out a plan of some sort to save them. Until that happened, it was Watson's job to make sure he didn't endure too much physical strain. Yeah, looks like I got myself caught. John offered a smile, his heart not truly in it.

"So I did fall asleep on your lap..." Sherlock smirked, gauging John's possible reactions. "But why did you dump me on the bed?" he asked, genuinely confused. Wasn't that what friends did, trust each other enough to sleep in the same bed?

"Because you needed the bed more than I did." John replied, not thinking anything was off about not wanting to sleep in the same bed. It would suggest that they were... He really would rather not give anyone more reason to believe they were together. Everyone was already convinced of it without him doing such a thing like sleeping with his best friend.

"Thank you for the sentiment, but-" Sherlock's impending cutting remark was cut short by one of the goon's fists. He'd been standing by, slightly confused by all the speech, and decided to cut them off. Sherlock wheezed an unintelligible protest of the fist in his ribs. Of course the man would hit his fractured ribs. Well, now they were broken. He struggled to regain his breath, messy hair hanging in front of his eyes.

A John yanked against the restraint of the thug that held him back, clenching his hand into a fist. He spun around to face the taller man, looking up and meeting his eyes. He could immobilize him with a cheap blow below the belt, following with a quick blow to the collar bone that would break it and dislocating his wrist. The real question was if reacting that way was worth it at this moment. One more look at how Sherlock was gasping like a fish out of water and he decided yes, yes it was. He executed his plan, shoving his knee into the man's crotch, slamming his weight against his collarbone with his elbow to focus it and ending by grabbing his wrist and twisting it. The man let out a yowl, not having the time to react before he was on the floor, cradling his hurt form. Watson snatched out the pistol from the "hidden" place under his coat. The gun felt good in his hands, some control after all this time. Without wasting a moment he aimed it at his other guard, firing at his kneecap and watching him slump to the ground.

Sherlock watched in some surprise. He hadn't known that John was so ... efficient at fighting. He was so immersed in his fighting style, and how he might emulate it, that he forgot to breathe. Literally. Sherlock put his head down and tried not to pass out. He raised his head after a minute of attempted deep breathing, and saw the man John had taken down with his bare hands yelling at thin air. He could make out words like "Escape", "security", "reinforcements", and most worryingly, "Moran." He got enough breath in to form a letter or two with his mouth "Joh-" He dissolved into coughing. And ... was that blood? 85% chance of a punctured lung. Stupid thug.

John removed some of the more useful weapons, as soon as that was finished he looked over to Sherlock and seeing blood on him. Stupid. He was so stupid. He couldn't escape with Sherlock in that state. He was only going to cause them both more pain. He was by his side in an instant, worry all over his face. "I'm sorry, I know it hurts." He took Sherlock's hand, placing a gun in it and looking in his eyes. "I can only help you once we get out. We at least need to try."

Sherlock nodded. Physical pain was secondary to both physical and mental freedom. Their tender moment was interrupted by the door, slammed open by a small man in a Westwood suit. He dashed across the room, punched Sherlock in the chest, and had John in a full nelson before Sherlock could make a snarky remark. A very short amount of time.

No matter what John's position, he still had a gun, doing his best to aim it in his current position. Sherlock also had a weapon, he could only hope he wasn't too hurt to use it. He fired the pistol, finding it missing the first time and doing his best to adjust and before pulling the trigger again.

A second of pain, and the man in the Westwood suit slumped to the floor, life slowly leaving his eyes. Sherlock watched, wide-eyed, as his nemesis died. He's thought that it'd be harder to kill Moriarty, he'd thought that it'd require monumental sacrifice, he'd thought-He stopped thinking as he started coughing up blood. 99% chance of a punctured lung. Moriarty. Even in death he looked angry...But he wasn't dead he was standing up and giggling and saying that Sherlock was a fool or why would he think that the Great Consulting Criminal was actually dead? Blackness crept about the room and into his head.

John took whatever weapons were on the man, keeping the ones that he couldn't disable and disposing of the ones he could. Once he was finished with that he was left with three pistols and a knife. "Sherlock! We have to..." Watson spun around, freezing at the condition Sherlock was in. He would never be able to walk in this state. He rushed back to him, using the blade to cut him free. "Sherlock, deep breaths. It will cause less damage and you may be able to stand the pain. Just stay awake. No matter what you do stay awake." John nearly begged, understanding how impossible it would be to get out without his help. In a split second decision he gently moved Sherlock from the chair, using it to bar the door and give them some time to recover.

Sherlock heard a voice-John?-begging him to stay awake. Then he felt a warm mattress beneath him and the hard chair was moved away. He'd just finished the case, the one with the limping man (The Case of the Crooked Man, John? Really) and he could afford to sleep. Tomorrow he'd be at the Yard, dealing with Anderson and Donovan and the rest of the idiots. But then why was John yelling at him to stay awake? He usually yelled at Sherlock to sleep...Slowly, he opened his eyes. Why did his chest hurt so much? Deep breaths...He tried to nod, accidentally constricting his windpipe and choking more. Breathe, he reminded himself. Breathe, stay awake, make snarky comments if he could...John would help him escape...Moriarty! Where was he? As long as he lived, they were in danger! He struggled to his feet, forcing the blackness back through sheer force of will. "M-M-Mor-i-ar" he stopped trying to talk, coughing even as he tried to breathe.

"Don't talk. Just, don't talk." John had now returned to the men that were in the room, knowing he couldn't risk one of them causing him trouble. One was dead, that one was no worry, but the other two... He approached them, searching everywhere he could think of for weapons and taking them away. He even found the phone, returning to Sherlock and placing it in his free hand. "If you can write, do that. It'll take less strain on your lungs. Don't make a sound or even try to move."

Sherlock grabbed the phone, opened Word, made a few adjustments, and typed "Moriarty?"

"I last saw in in what he called the viewing room. He has probably moved by now. I have a good idea of the layout of this place, since I saw the cameras. Not perfect of course." John answered after glancing over the phone, finding himself pacing back and forth. This was unbelievably stressful. After it was over he planned on getting himself a nice cup of tea.

"Draw it." Sherlock typed.

Mycroft: "Draw... Ah." John glanced around, not exactly having a pen. He drew out one of the knives instead, crouching down next to Sherlock and drawing what he knew. "I entered in through there. Bad idea to exit that way because of the rafters. Last time he had a sniper up there. These were the cells, the viewing room and... Here. The rest is based off the cameras, but I'm not sure if it's right or not."

Sherlock took the knife. Scratching on the floor beside John's drawing, he wrote, "The roof? Other rafters? Other doors? Trapdoors 2 roof?"

"I told you. I only have what the cameras gave me." John shrugged, shaking his head.

Sherlock nodded, then had a flash of insight. He wrote, "Go 2 vwing room: better thn wandring around."

"Yes, but what am I going to do with you? I can't leave you here and you aren't quite able to walk. Carrying you could damage you more than you already are." John appreciated Sherlock's intelligence more than he could express at the moment, even if ti wasn't at full capacity.

Watson: Sherlock didn't even pause. "I can stay here: leave a machne gun w/ Watson: M will have a knockout switch. Use it. Cme back & get me."

Mycroft: "Knockout switch?" John questioned, moved to go grab the weapon as Sherlock has requested.

"Knockout gas." Sherlock grabbed the gun and made sure there was ammunition inside. The extra weight weighed on him and forced him to use more oxygen. He almost rolled his eyes as the coughing started worsening. He'd lost...how much blood? It was painted around the room as if someone had fallen, bleeding, and tried to do the Worm around the room. The image would have made him smile if blood wasn't spraying out of his mouth.

John grimaced at the scene, not snatching away the gun or anything. There was nothing he could do. Sherlock required surgery. He couldn't do surgery in a place like this. Best he could do was provide him with oxygen, and he had no machine to do such. Best he could do for now was rip off one of the thug's shirts and offer it to Sherlock to wipe of the blood.

Sherlock accepted the rag and wiped his face. He waved it at John, a silent signal for him to continue. There was a 50% chance that he would heal with little to no permanent damage, but that percent dropped with each minute John wasted with emotion. Leaning against a wall put pressure on the broken ribs, sending pain, worse than before, shooting up his side. He ignored it, trying as best he could to show John that he could leave.

John hesitated, giving him a brisk nod and approaching the door. He slowly removed the chair, quickly opening the door and standing there with a gun prepared for anyone that might had decided to show up to guard it. He would have been able to quickly take cover, as for whoever was outside... The hallway had nowhere. It would be a disadvantage for him latter, but for now it was quite the opposite.

Sherlock waited for John to leave so he could admit his weakness and just rest. He was excellent with masks of emotions, weakness, or sickness. Sherlock knew he'd have been a great actor if he'd turned his mind to the stage, just as he could have been a chemist, or policeman. He loved this life, though. How many actors or chemists had arch-enemies? How many policemen had brothers that WERE the British government? How many chemists had ex-Army medical doctors with jumpers and tea as friends? Mask slipping. Pull it back before John notices. Back straight. Ignore pain. Keep machine gun steady. Breathe.

There was no one in sight, leaving John to traverse the corridor uninterrupted when he decided to make the mad dash. He kept his gun trained on the opposite wall, about to take a step out and hesitating. He glanced back towards Sherlock, a look of concern crossing his face. "Just... Be safe." Those those parting words he left, entering the hall and approaching where danger would no doubt eventually find him.

Sherlock smiled slightly. Few people had cared about his wellbeing before. He would stay awake...for John.

Max charged down the corridor. He'd gotten the message about how some guy named John had escaped the deepest cells. It'd be easy to stop him escaping: the whole place had been built so that escaping prisoners from below had to pass through several easy-to-defend bottlenecks. He'd just stop at the next, right up the hall from the cell where John had been kept. He skidded to a halt, grabbing a submachine gun from the armory two doors down from the bottleneck. Inching down the last twenty feet, he stopped, waiting to shoot at the first person around the corner.

John halted at a corner, not quite feeling comfortable peeking around it. He placed his back against the wall, taking a few deep breaths through his mouth. He just had to stay calm. He stayed calm and he could outmatch them. He had more experience than any of the guards he had seen yet. All of them but... He worry about Moriarty's favorite when that was an issue. For all he knew, he would be lucky enough not to run into the sniper. He popped around the corner, faltering at the sight of the machine gun and ducking back behind cover.

Max had an itchy trigger finger. A spray of bullets peppered the wall, just beyond where he thought he'd seen movement. He decided that there was none and settled back to wait.

Two corridors down, at the second bottleneck, another guard lay in wait. He was far more experienced than the 30-year-old Max: he'd served in the Air Force for 15 years and in the Army for 5. He'd only quit because he had poor speed on the running tests. Looking for any work, he'd run into Moriarty. The man's name? Danny. And he had a bone to pick with this ... John.

What to do? What should he do? He wasn't the one at the advantage here. He shouldn't attack. But he had to. There was little other choice and from the looks of it Moriarty was out for blood now. He shut his eyes, trying to think up any logical plan he could. It didn't work all too well. Watson was a man of action, not so much of intellect. That was why he had always appreciated Sherlock's ability to think things out so easily. What to do...? What to do?

Max decided to investigate. If the movement he'd seen had been John, and he killed the escaped prisoner, he would have his revenge on him, and be praised by Moriarty. If he didn't, and was killed by John instead, nothing would happen to him. Except that he'd be dead. But besides his life, he had nothing left to lose...Just peek around the corner...He got up, tip-toeing over to the corner. His head leaned around carefully.

Mycroft: John reopened his eyes, a new sense of determination falling over him. He had to try. Just as he was about to dash out, someone looked over, coming face to face with him. He could have easily smelled the man's breath if he wasn't more focused on staying alive. The gun in his hand was quick to be brought to Max's throat. "Don't move. Don't even blink."

Max was terrified. Who was this man with murder in his eyes, wearing a bloodstained jumper? He tried to get words out, but nothing except a small wheeze was heard. He tried again. Nothing. Why did he have to be the one to be stationed on the same block as a crazy guy named John? What did Moriarty have against him?

Mycroft: John instantly recognized the fear, feeling something odd come over him. He hated it. Fear wasn't something he was accustomed to soliciting from people. "Weapons on the floor. Do it now." As much as he disliked it, he had to keep it up until Max was no longer a threat. He didn't know the guard, why should he care about him? He was the enemy.

Max scrambled to divest himself of his machine gun, two small pistols, and a knife. He looked regretfully at the knife. Danny had given him that knife! He laid it more gently on the floor than the other weapons, stepping back from the small pile as fast as he could, so the short crazy man wouldn't shoot him or something.

John nodded, looking down at the weapons and waving Max away. "Well, what are you still doing here? Also, don't ever look at me like that again or I might actually shoot you." He advised, popping the bullets out of the pistols and pocketing the knife. The machine gun wasn't his style though. He might come back for it, but he didn't plan on using it now.

Max's mouth dropped open. John was letting him go? Without shooting him? Maybe he wasn't crazy. Better than Moriarty in that respect...He decided, spur-of-the-moment, to help this John. He plunged his hand into a pocket, withdrew a piece of paper, and threw it on the ground, vaguely in John's direction. He ran the opposite way, thinking up a cover story even as he fled.

Mycroft: John hesitated to pick the paper up, watching Max flee. It would end up being a puzzle or something else preposterous knowing Moriarty. Carefully, he picked up the sliver of paper, looking over it for a few moments before recognizing what it was: a map of the place, with guards' positions marked. Sparing that man really had done him some good. It restored some faith in his morals at that moment. Mercy did have a point. Everyone had a life to live, reasons for their actions. If anyone, the people who deserved to die were Moriarty and Moran.

Danny readied his gun. A burst of gunfire had just echoed around the block. Max. Dumb kid. Probably dead now. Max ran past, breathing hard and...smiling? Danny sucked in a breath to ask him a question, but the younger man just ran past, not slowing. Danny grunted. The escaped short guy - Jim? Joe? Jack? - was still loose. Max wasn't bleeding, so Danny's top priority was the recapture of the loose prisoner.

John was much more cautious at the corners now, much more aware of which were dangers and which were not with the help of the map. He was reaching the next area to look out for, glad not to hear gunfire. At least they weren't trigger happy and likely to shoot an ally. But how to proceed? He was obviously on his way, without the gift of surprise. Every time he passed a new enemy it would be a challenge, without a doubt.

Danny heard quiet footsteps coming from the other direction. The escaped prisoner. Gun at the ready, he sneaked down the corridor. He wouldn't mess up like Max probably had.

Sherlock heard gunshots through the cotton that seemed to be stuffing his ears. Struggling upright (when did the machine gun get so heavy?), he listened for signs of the outcome of the brief firefight. The low murmur of John's voice reassured him. The clatter of metal on metal told him that John was probably disarming some guard. Would John do the sensible thing and kill the guard before the guard told the others, or would he have "empathy" and let him go? Running footsteps answered his question. Sherlock sighed, breath catching in his throat and triggering another bout of coughing.

John had his weapon prepared. Now, it was all a matter of who would be able to fire first when it reached that point. He hoped he would be able to win without causing permanent damage, feeling like he had learned a good deal from the behavior of the one he had spared. Sometimes death was necessary, but doing it when it could be handled a much more peaceful way was foolish. Watson's thoughts went back to Sherlock, imagining how he would be mocked if his friend knew his thoughts. Sentiment wasn't a good thing... Moriarty had believed the same thing.

Danny weighed his options: leap around the corner and kill everything in sight; run away; or stalk the escaped prisoner. Running away was a last resort. Killing everything in sight meant that he'd probably kill others of Moriarty's men. Stalking the escaped prisoner was the only option. Footsteps scurried up behind him. Whipping around, he saw three other guards. Reinforcements. Excellent. Now someone else could jump out and kill everything in sight.

John recoiled at the sound of footsteps. Being outnumbered was a terrible idea. He couldn't let them past to get to Sherlock though. Silently, he retreated behind the previous corner he had passed to collect his thoughts and think up a plan. The most pressing things to him were keeping himself and Sherlock alive, after that everything else was second.

One of the men leaned down to whisper loudly in Danny's ear, "Hey boss. Let's kill this mo-" Danny cut him off with a hand signal, a finger drawn across the throat. Talk later. Kill now. the gesture said. Two of the men charged around the corner, screaming bloody murder and shooting everything in sight.

Sherlock jumped. Too many bullets ricocheting for it to be John. Three at the most. His flatmate needed help. Rising from his crumpled position on the floor, he made for the door.

John grimaced at the noise, ducking down and covering his head with both arms. It wasn't likely, but a bullet could still stray and hit him. Better for his arms to go than him. He made not a sound, waiting for their screaming to diminish so he could evaluate if he should retaliate or not. One thing for certain, he couldn't just sit there like an imbecile and wait to be shot. Kill or be killed... It was like he was back in the war.

No one. Great. Idiots. Danny hissed between his teeth, letting out his tirade in a single sharp sound. The others flinched, knowing what was coming with long experience. Danny just shook his head in disgust. Grabbing his gun, stepping silently, he gestured for the others to join him, tip-toeing down the hall.

Surprise... He had it on his side now. The only thing he could really do was use it while it was still there. He leapt out from behind his hiding place, both hands holding the single pistol in his hands out in front of him. He had only a split second to make a decision, aiming at the closest one there, Danny, and firing. He wasn't even able to make sure it had made contact before ducking back behind the corner, sprinting full speed towards the next one. It was the last one he had before Sherlock... That wasn't good. He could only hope he had taken one out so he only had to deal with preventing two from reaching the detective.

Danny tried to dodge. Really, he did. But the escaped prisoner guy had to have been ex-Army or a professional sharp-shooter or something, to hit him with only a second's glance. One glance down at his chest and he knew he was done for. And looking down again would mean vomiting. Not that he hadn't seen some nasty stuff in Afghanistan, but this was his own blood, his own lung tissue spread-he stopped that train of thought. And waved the others on. Why'd he sign up with that crazy fellow, Moran? It wasn't like he couldn't have gotten a good paycheck from somewhere else. Danny suddenly wanted a hand to hold. Like his best friend, bleeding out from the stumps of his legs. Like the cook, unarmed and cut to pieces by the shrapnel. But everything was fuzzy, and this bed was so soft. Cease-fire had already been called, and he'd managed to get out of sentry duty for the night...All he had to do ... was ... sleep...His body relaxed. Dead.

John heard footsteps pounding after him, only stopping once he turned the corner and saw Sherlock. He shook his head, motioning for him to go back before spinning around and cocking his pistol, prepared to take on the enemy when they charged around the corner and towards him. He wouldn't have long, a few seconds at best. He would be able to get one, but the other one would have the time to shoot him first. After this, he was going to be dead or probably injured assuming these two were good shots.

Sherlock nodded, going back. Feeling useless. He should be the one shooting the other people. He knew that he was a fairly good shot, and that no guilt would stick with him, whereas John would probably either stay up to insanely late hours trying to come to grips with today or have nightmares for weeks.

One of the men, Chris, was a fairly good shot. He'd been with Moran for about two years, with the Mafia before that for about ten. Not much could surprise him, and he'd spat in Death's eye and walked away whole before. In other words, cannon fodder. He tried his best to tiptoe around the corner, scared for his health.

John was relieved watching Sherlock retreat. It wasn't worth him risking his health. He would be more worried about him than himself. It wasn't worth the distraction. He turned back around, just in time to see his newest enemy creeping around the corner. He instantly fired, no hesitation. It wasn't the best shot, missing entirely due to not having been prepared. There was a terrible noise, a click. It was out of bullets. It dropped it like it was on fire, fumbling for another weapon.

Chris ducked, sure that the guy shooting at him was going to kill him like Danny. He ran through his 5 ex-girlfriends' faces, 2 ex-wives' divorce settlements, his younger brother's games, and his mother's recipes before he realized he wasn't dead. Click. The familiar sound of a pistol out of bullets. This escaped prisoner guy was goin' DOWN!

The first thing John could find was a knife. He attacked Chris, charging towards his foe with the blade in hand. It was the very blade he had taken from the first guard he had come in contact with. The veteran recognized a gun in the hands of the other, ignoring it at that moment. If he could attack before the other could prepare it...

Watson: Chris' gun jammed. Great. Just when he needed it...He threw it aside. He was better at hand-to-hand than just mowing his enemies down impersonally. Besides, knives gave you chances to enjoy all the little...savory bits of killing someone. Guns were too ... quick. A 10-inch Bowie knife materialized in his hand. Looking at the other's knife, his eyes widened. That was his friend's! This guy had killed and ransacked his friend's body! Without a second's thought, rage curling through his mind, he attacked, bringing the knife down on the smaller man's head.

John watched the other, halting when he saw the other take out a weapon. He tensed, feeling that he would lose this battle. He wasn't as proficient in hand to hand combat, never having even done it where both rivals had a weapon. He jumped back as Chris began to advance, pulling out another weapon now. He pointed it at the ex-mobster, continuing to back away a little. "Drop it. Drop it now."

Oh. Another gun. Well...Chris dodged, weaved, and tackled the smaller man. He forced the trapped man to drop the pistol, then grinned down.

John let out a yelp, back hitting the ground and air being forced out of his lungs. He gasped for breath for a few moments, still having the knife in one hand. The blade was quickly lodged into Chris' chest.

Chris jerked back, dull pain spreading through him. Numb fingers scrabbled at the guard of the blade, already falling still. Blackness covered the room. The only distinguishable feature was the short man, now standing. But why did he look like the Angel of Death in that illustrated book of children's tales Chris had read growing up? And why was he smiling? With his last breath, Chris cursed, not the short man, but Moran. This was all his fault. He went limp. Dead.

John shoved away the dying man, standing up and leaving the knife. He had others. As for pistols, he was running out. The war doctor plucked up the one he had dropped, jogging down the corridor towards the viewing room. He had cleared out most of the hall. Maybe he could make it. A small amount of hope blossomed. They might now die today.

Sherlock followed, trying as best he could not to cough up more blood and give away his position. An arm dragged him into a small room to the side. He shouted "Joh-" but his voice was muffled by a rag soaked in chloroform. He just had time to roll his eyes at the cliche-ness before he fell to the floor unconscious. Again.

John continued on his path, surprised not to encounter anyone else on his way towards the viewing room. He was getting so close too. People should have been there, defending it with their lives. Something wasn't right. What was Moriarty up to?

A voice rang out over the PA system. "Oh, Johnny-boy...Aren't you forgetting something?" Moriarty.

John froze, glancing up towards the speaker as Moriarty's voice rang out. "Oh, no... No, no, no!" Watson turned in his tracks, sprinting back in the direction he had come from. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock pushed through layers of tissue paper. Each one held him back from ... light. But he was underwater, swimming through seaweed...He woke, eyes snapping open and immediately getting a nice close-up of Moriarty's suit-front. He leaned back to avoid getting a faceful of Moriarty. "Ah, the little consulting detective is awake!" followed by a nauseating giggle. Not again.

John was moving at full speed now. Damn... He didn't care what it took. Next time he met Moriarty he was shooting him. That man had put him through move trouble than he cared to admit. Watson just wanted to get Sherlock to a hospital and settle down in the flat with a nice cup of tea and nothing to do but daydream or some other useless task. At this rate Sherlock wasn't going to last long. A punctured lung and no treatment was begging for problems. He stumbled to a halt as he entered the doorway of the "playroom."

Moriarty giggled. How stupid was Sherlock? Running down the corridors of his prison, with his nemesis on the loose, armed only with a submachine gun. And he outranked John? It should be the other way around. Hmmmm...Only one toy left. He'd have to remedy that.

John glanced around, not seeing Sherlock anywhere. He had last seen him here... Where was he? Well, he couldn't figure it out with so little information. Watson had no choice but to trudge back towards the viewing room, hoping to take it over and catch a glimpse of his flatmate over the cameras. Yes, he could still find him. They weren't without hope yet.

Moriarty seemed to be bleeding from a cut on the forehead, and when he moved, Sherlock could see a slight wobble in his left leg. Mutiny? Or were Lestrade and the others besieging this place? The chances were 64% and 36% respectively. Sherlock's trains of thought were derailed as Moriarty started grinning at a small crack in the ceiling. "Hello Johnny-boy." he cooed.

John approached his destination, becoming ever more cautious as he did. There was likely to be more guards as he approached the place. Why was there less? "What are you planning?" He muttered to himself, gun held delicately between his fingers.

Sherlock looked quizzical for a moment. How cute. Inside his pants pockets, Moriarty fingered the remote control for the lights, cameras, and nerve gas. Hmmm...He could play with John from afar, get revenge on him for ruining his playtime. Yes. A button was pressed. The lights in the viewing room and the surrounding corridors went out.

John faltered, lights flickering for a moment before going out completely. That wasn't a good thing. He knew his way in the light. But in the dark... He would have to guess mostly from memory. The dark caused Watson to fumble about, keeping a palm against the wall as he traversed down it.

Moriarty pressed another button, then entered the code that activated the infrared cameras. A quick tap of his iPhone dashboard in the other pocket, and the remote and phone whirred separately for a moment. He took out the iPhone. Ding! The download was complete. He grabbed the remote, threw it on the ground, deactivated it from the iPhone, then stamped on it until it was nothing more than shards of plastic and metal littering the floor. Sherlock watched, poker-faced, through all of this. Another bit of simple iPhone hacking and programming, and he could see through all the infrared cameras. Excellent. John's signature was headed in the right direction.

John continued on the path towards where he believed he should be going, nearly running right into a door. With some hesitation he threw it open. If there was anyone on the other side he was as good as dead. Even more so if there was light. He would be too busy adjusting to the light to shoot anything.

Moriarty turned the lights on in the room where John had paused, the second playroom. He hadn't managed to get all of his minions' toys out of there in less than an hour. John's reaction would be ... amusing. Sherlock smirked. A quick backhand to the face solved that, and a rabbit punch to the kidneys stopped him from any snarky comments for at least thirty minutes. Moriarty was a bit surprised when Sherlock began coughing up blood.

John blinked, covering his hand with his hand and ducking behind the doorway to avoid getting shot on the case of anyone was there. Once his eyes adjusted he looked back in, slowly taking in everything he saw. No emotion crossed over his face, emotions battling over him inwardly. At first he felt horror, quickly replaced by rage and guilt. "So that's what they did to you." He shut the door, trying to associate it with nothing but the direction he didn't want to go. Watson proceeded down the corridor, now knowing for sure where the viewing room was due to the little light the "playroom" had given.

Sherlock watched Moriarty's facial expressions as the light from his modified iPhone lit his face. They ranged from happy to slightly cartoonishly sad to full-blown psychopathy. He guessed that Moriarty had remembered the playroom. The memories bayed at the edges of his mind. A quick recitation of the alkaline metals held them back, and a few minutes of mind chess locked them back in their own room in his mind palace. Which needed maintenance. Great. Just wait until John comes to knock out Moriarty and save the day...maintenance could wait.

John felt along the wall, hand stopping on a doorknob. This had to be it. It had to be the viewing room. Watson opened it, raising his pistol to shoot down anyone he saw standing there. Hell, even if he just couldn't see anything due to a flash of light he would shoot. It was the safest thing to do, only way to try to assure his own safety.

The viewing room was now occupied. Time to start the show. Nerve gas? Check. Door locks? Check. Panicked short guy? Check. Panicked detective? Almost there. Good enough. Guards evacuated? Oh, ... Two signatures on the north entrance...but no guards had been there...Lestrade.

John slowly entered the viewing room, finding that there were still no lights. His eyes had begun to adjust though, making it easier to maneuver around. The screens weren't on. Something was wrong. Moriarty knew he was planning on coming here. He had to get out. It was a trap! Watson dashed for the door, only hoping he could get out before things went very wrong.

"And...locks." Moriarty whispered to his phone. "Now...PA." A crackle, hiss, and buzz later, and his voice oozed through the viewing room speakers. "Now, Johnny-boy, I have something of yours. You have something I want. If I give back to you what you lost, will you give me what I want? You have 5 minutes. Text me when you decide to do as I say. Buh-bye!" And "Stayin Alive" played over the entire PA.

John reached the door just as it automatically slammed shut, retaliating by pounding his fist against the metal a single time. "No! Nnnng..." He paced around, listening to the speakers while he did so. It was stupid to obey. He had no guarantee that Moriarty would keep his word. He quickly pulled out the phone he had been given, typing in Sherlock's number, which he assumed Jim must have been meant. Or he could just use the contact labelled Moriarty. That seemed like a better idea.

Watson: How do I know you'll give me back Sherlock unharmed?

Moriarty: Here's Sherly! -JM

John, don't give in. -SH

Watson: I'm locked in a room with the choice of doing it willingly or unwillingly. Not giving in does about as much good as giving in does.

Moriarty: Do you know what he wants? -SH

Watson: No.

Do you?

Moriarty: Yes. -SH

Watson: And what does he want?

Moriarty: You. -SH

Watson: That makes no sense. Why would he want me? You are his ultimate rival.

Moriarty: He wants a pet. A rival has to be free to be a rival. -SH

Watson: He has Moran.

Moriarty: Have you heard of cockfights? -SH

Watson: He's going to have us fight to the death? That makes no sense.

Moriarty: Or catfights. -SH

Watson: So just fight.

That still is insane.

Moriarty: And I am insane. -JM

Watson: Just... Tell me what you want me to do.

Moriarty: Come to papa. Leave your weapons. -JM

Watson: Not until I have proof. I want to hear his voice. Texting could just be you acting as him.

Moriarty: Fine. -JM

Over the PA came muffled voices. They argued about...diction? Really? for a few minutes, then the sound of fist striking flesh echoed. A moment of silence. "John?" It was Sherlock.

John perked at the sound, almost smiling over how Sherlock was still arguing despite his physical condition. "I'm sorry." The veteran addressed Sherlock, ignoring that he probably wasn't going to be heard. With a few seconds of hesitation, he dropped the pistol on the floor, removing the other guns and the final knife. Every last one of his weapons was discarded on the ground, leaving him powerless as he waited for Moriarty's next command.

Sherlock heard John's voice through the speakers of Moriarty's iPhone. Good. He was giving up. It was only logical to let Sherlock go free, John was hopeless at finding kidnapped people. Moriarty would be distracted by his new toy, Sherlock could go after a few criminals for about a week, then utterly crush Moriarty. Simple. Logical. Useful.

So why was he ashamed of himself?

If you want me to come find you, you might want to make it so that I am not stuck in a room. John texted back to Moriarty.

Moriarty quickly unlocked all the doors on the path between the viewing room and the room in which he was keeping Sherlock. "Follow the yellow brick road, Johnny-boy." he cooed over the PA. "And don't step over the lines..."

John exited the room, finding all of the doors on the doors on the way opened. He continued through the darkness, completely and utterly defeated. Who knew what Moriarty was going to do to him? Only Sherlock could understand that twisted mind. There was one thing that was certain, whatever Jim did to him, it would be painful.

Watson: Moriarty grabbed a knife from some dark recess of the room. "Smile, Sherlock," he cooed as he approached with the knife. "You really should...SMILE!" His madness burst through, turning his smile from creepy to utterly terrifying. Moriarty put the knife to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, angling it upwards. "Johnny's coming. He'll make everything better...so yelling would be redundant..." Moriarty grinned, and started to move the knife.

Mycroft: John trudged down, pausing at a room with light coming from it. He jumped into action when he heard a cry, racing toward the room. The sound came from someone very familiar to him. "Sherlock!" He burst through the doorway, not waiting to look around. He was on Moriarty in a second, having grabbed him by the collar and pulled him away from his flatmate. Watson's hand was curled back into a fist, as if to strike a blow against the man. The doctor's eyes raged with anger, slowly lowering his fist and backing away.

Sherlock struggled with his bonds, ropes and chains together binding him to a chair. Even the games Moriarty and his minions hadn't been so...affecting. And this time, there was no outlet. The cold steel rested just inside his mouth. If Moriarty cut his mouth too badly, how would he talk? Or eat? Or make snarky comments? He tried to breathe, just now becoming aware that he was hyperventilating. He couldn't scream or the knife might slip. Who was sobbing? Everyone in the room was either a psychopath or a self-proclaimed sociopath. Oh, right. It was him. The knife rested at the corner of his mouth, end scratching at his canine. It cut. It took all of Sherlock's willpower to stay silent and not cry. Crying would produce saltwater tears, which would aggravate the wound. Which now stretched from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone, about a centimeter below and behind his eye. It hurt unimaginably. Slumping forward, his punctured lung reminded him of its existence. Coughing blood, bleeding from the face...he had to look a sight. The knife rested at the corner of the other side of his mouth. He tried to speak, tried to beg, but it cut again, more slowly this time, burning and freezing the sides of the wound. Blood sheeted down both sides of his face, also spilling from his open mouth. Well, of course it was open. The blade was back, poking his forehead, dangerously close to his eyes. Blood trickled down, dripping into his eyelashes...but it didn't hurt. Why? Oh, yes, his blood was already on the blade. Near to blacking out, all Sherlock felt was the letter M being inscribed on his forehead.

John stared at Moriarty, blood running cold at how he refused to give him anything but a chilling grin. He glanced past him, at Sherlock. "Oh God..." He passed Jim, slowly making his way to his flatmate's side. He couldn't even reach out and touch him for fear that it would increase the pain. Sherlock was... Broken. He had let Sherlock Holmes be hurt. His only real friend... Watson shrank to his knees, staring at his flatmate. He stood up, turning towards Jim and stopping right in front of him. He landed a punch on his jaw, giving into his anger as he did so.

Moriarty rocked back a bit with the force of the blow. It knocked the smile right off his face, literally and metaphorically. The knife came out again. Sherlock whimpered hoarsely and nearly silently. The knife meant pain, disfigurement, and (he hoped) death. Moriarty pulled his jovial mask back on and said, "Now Johnny, either you stay here to keep your master from bleeding out or you chase me and he dies soon. Which will it be?"

John glared at him, breathing heavy to try to calm himself. He spun around, back to Moriarty and returning to Sherlock. It was as if he was saying, "See, I'm not afraid of you." Watson removed his coat, pressing it against Sherlock's forehead. It was the wound easiest to treat. Of course his cheeks had to be cut open. Those were difficult. Big scars would remain from all of this in the very best case scenario. "Don't patronize yourself. You're not worth that much to me."

"Oh? I just ruined your boyfriend's pretty face. I nearly blew both of you up in the pool. I discredited Sherlock. I've made your life and his a living hell for the past week. I think that means something to both of us, don't you?" and he half-smiled through all of it. Which was just ... wrong. "Do you want revenge for his death ... or do you want him alive now? THAT is the question." and he started grinning, madness barely in check.

"He's not my boyfriend. Why does everything think he's my boyfriend?" John muttered, doing his best to place pressure against his coat and stop the bleeding. He was glad it hid the cuts on his mouth too, feeling a little sick thinking about it. It wasn't because of the gore, but the thought that it was permanent. "You're supposed to be a genius, right? If you're so smart you can figure that answer out yourself."

"Let me guess...you hate me and think me a despicable, whiny child. If so, beware. Children get what they want ... and they are not gentle with their toys." he was deadly serious. Everything he'd said so far was true. "Oh, and you're not with Sherlock? Hurry up, the waiting's boring. You know, you'd be his first boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Or love interest or whatever he wants to call it in his oh so logical mind."

"Only spoiled children who are unfortunate enough to have parents that are too focused on themselves to give a... To care about taking care of their own child." John shot back, not looking at Moriarty once this entire time. "What Sherlock does with his love life isn't my issue. I'm not going to get into a relationship with him just to remedy the lack of a partner. We're friends, and that is all."

"Little kitten has a bite. Maybe ... I should make him smile more. Maybe I should take away his bite."

"Maybe said feline wouldn't bite if you didn't jab needles at it." For once, John decided to ignore the pet analogy. Hating it beyond an end but feeling that restating that was pointless at the moment.

"Don't you want revenge?"

"I can respect you without acting on my impulses. Anyways, I don't believe I respect you in the way you imagine." John retorted, pulling away his soiled coat from Sherlock's forehead. At least he had stopped the bleeding there. Dealing with the Glasgow smile was a bit more complicated. Normally he would have stitched it closed, but that wasn't quite possible at the moment. Of course I want revenge. But there's a time and place for everything. Going after you when Sherlock is in such a state is stupidity."

"But stupidity is your job. Little Sherly always makes you feel like a fool, doesn't he? Even when you tell him how admirable he is, how ... fantastic his deductions are ... don't you wish that YOU could be the one solving cases, protecting lives? Don't YOU want to command the respect he does?" Moriarty leaned close to John's ear, the better to whisper his poison, infecting John's brain. He grinned, chuckling gently against John's ear.

"..." John pulled away, not appreciating the feeling of Moriarty's breath against his ear. He shot him a glare before returning to taking care of Sherlock's wounds. "No, I don't wish that at all if it comes with the costs he has had to deal with. I'm already doing enough by helping him. I think this situation has made it clear how he would be dead without my help, if he would like to admit that or not. I may not have respect from everyone, but I have respect, even though it's a very small amount, from someone who doesn't give it to anyone."

"But Sherly respects me. Ask him. And...did he ever respond to my move, Queen to D-3? Tell him to text me...After all, he still has my number. And I believe that is all. Goodbye!" and Moriarty started out of the room.

Confusion flashed across John's face. After all of this he was just going to leave? He was insane. Hadn't he wanted something? Watson gave up trying to understand him. Of course Sherlock respected Moriarty, but more of a grudging way.

"Bye bye...Catch you later, PET." Moriarty released all of his loathing for the insignificant BORING person who had ruined all of his plans. Irreparably. He could plan other dastardly deeds, maybe take over the Mafia, but John was bound to tell Mycroft. And Moriarty's fun with Sherlock would be over. Unless ... Moran remembered where he had put his sniper's rifle, the one with the poisoned bullets.

John glared at the wall at the final thing Moriarty had called him. He wasn't a pet, he wasn't useless, and he most certainly wasn't his flatmate's boyfriend. With a long sigh, John dabbed at the blood in an attempt to remove it so he could get a better look at Sherlock's wounds to assess how pressing it was to get to a hospital. Clearly, very soon. But he needed to know if survival was likely even if he did get him there. The answer was, no. It wasn't very likely at all.

Moriarty walked slowly out of the room. He almost wished that John would try and stop him. What was the point of winning a game when there was no one to play against? He hoped he had damaged little Sherly badly. It'd enrage his flatmate. Standing just outside the door, he let it bang shut. Moriarty walked slowly out of the corridor.

"Come on. Let's get you out of here." John whispered to Sherlock, ignoring that he was probably unconscious. The problem was how he was attached to a chair. There was nothing for him to cut the binds with, leaving him no choice but to drag the chair behind him as he approached the very door Moriarty has exited through. No matter what, the soldier was not making the mistake of leaving Sherlock alone.

Sherlock heard muffled conversation, John and Moriarty arguing most likely, mostly ignoring it, absorbing key words and phrases like John's "not ... boyfriend" and Moriarty's "Text me!" And his face hurt. Now he'd always be smiling. Shame. At least it'd help his poker face ... no one would dare look at him. It felt ... like the time he and Mycroft had gone sledding together. He'd laughed and smiled so much that his cheeks had nearly frozen that way. Sherlock wondered what John would think, if he'd ever seen Sherlock and Mycroft actually NOT trying to kill the other through words. Why didn't Mycroft like him? ... He drifted into rosy memories. All ten of them. And five with John.

John grabbed onto the back on the chair, pulling it behind him to that it was tilted onto only two legs. It took a lot less effort to do that than he expected. It even helped keep Sherlock easier to manage than a body that he would have to toss over his shoulder, also less painful for the detective. He passed through the doorway, finding Moriarty nowhere in sight. "Another time..." He muttered, yanking his friend towards where he remembered the exit to be. He just wanted out and to get Sherlock help. Little else mattered at the moment.

The jerking and scraping of the chair to which Sherlock was tied grated up through his limbs and into his aching head. Just ... get ... the knife out of his pocket ... Done! A bit of half-conscious gymnastics later, the knife dropped on the floor. Sherlock hadn't cut himself free because he probably would have rid himself of a few body parts whilst attempting it, and the knife he'd dropped just behind his feet had been the one that Moriarty had used on him. It still had his blood caking it.

John gently placed the chair on all four legs, forcing himself to stay calm despite the troubling noise. As soon as that was done with, he spun around to face an empty corridor. His gaze fell on the blade, failing to see what had happened but feeling relief over having a weapon. The blood on it was worrying, but not worth his thought at the moment. He plucked the dagger up, with a quick movement cutting Sherlock loose. "Don't move. I'll fix this, I promise." He exhaled a shaky breath, pulling the chair behind him once more. Now his flatmate wouldn't have to worry about the ropes pressing against his wounds, but it was still easier to transport him with the chair.

Sherlock would have smiled if his face hadn't hurt so much. Of course John would hear the clatter of knife on concrete. After all, his best friend would always help him...but why was he guilty all of a sudden? Oh yes, he'd caused all this to happen...given John to Moriarty ... gotten kidnapped in the first place (why hadn't he recognized the scratch marks on the doorframe?) and occasionally called John stupid. Was he? Not as smart as Mycroft, but John was always there. It more than made up for John's occasional stupidity.

John trudged onwards, ignoring the pain that was now pierced his muscles like the icy knife that had hurt Sherlock. Everything around him became fuzzy, leaving him only able to focus on one thing. He had to get out. Watson's path was set on the exit, ignoring the chaos around it as long as it didn't influence both of them directly. When he finally snapped back to reality it was because his name had been called. "John? What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, seeming surprised by their presence. "Sherlock... Just get Sherlock out."

Lestrade? How long had he been there? Had Sherlock blacked out and missed his arrival? Or had Lestrade only now arrived? Did John call him? If so, when? So many ... questions ... John would take care of anything that was ... a potential ... threat ... A picture of John killing Moriarty jumped about in his mind, almost making him smile ... He fell asleep quickly, safe in the knowledge that whatever happened, John would get out. Or keep Sherlock safe, no matter the cost ... he had to tell John not to do that ... he opened his mouth just slightly and half-whispered, "John ..."

Chaos continued to rage around him, but now John didn't even try to stay focused. He zoned out, world becoming nothing but a blur. He felt someone holding onto his arm, directing him towards a police cruiser and barraging him with questions. A question crossed his mind. Where was Sherlock. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing a police officer bringing him along behind. It was over. They were safe.

Sherlock woke up, controlling his breathing almost immediately, keeping his eyes closed, so that whatever evil psychopath had him locked up AGAIN might be fooled into leaving him alone for a while ... then he noticed that he couldn't open his mouth. But why did that sound good? Oh. The scars. 79% chance that they were still healing, 58% chance that he was in a hospital recuperating. Where was John? They hadn't taken him away, had they? Were "they" the hospital staff or were they something more sinister? And ... could he open his eyes? A moment of blinding white light later, and he shut his eyes against the fluorescent lights above his head. Honestly, what kind of fool doctors did they have, putting bright lights directly over someone who had a facial injury? His eyes weren't injured (thank goodness) but they didn't know that ... "John?" he asked.

John sat in a chair next to Sherlock's bed, head rested in his hands and an uneaten salad on the table. He was exhausted, yet his body had refused him sleep. Sherlock would be fine, he had been making a surprisingly good recovery but his face would never look the same again. It was scarred and hideous. There was a chance of fixing it a good deal with a plastic surgeon but that would cost money he didn't have. He perked up at his name, almost instantly by his friend's side. "No, don't talk. I can't get you a pen and paper but talking with your mouth stitched up is not a good idea. It may not hurt yet but it will later." Watson plucked up a pad of paper and a pen he had been saving for this very moment, offering it to Sherlock with a reassuring smile. His heart wasn't in it, but it was for Sherlock, not him. He had to pretend nothing was wrong. Any problems he had were eclipsed by the younger Holmes.

Sherlock nodded. The logic was inescapable. Grabbing the pen and paper, he tried to sit up, very aware of his possible broken ribs (89% now). The expected pain didn't come. Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, he sat up all the way, leaning against the headboard of the hospital bed. Cracking his eyes open and seeing that the white only stung his eyes slightly and he could see quite well now, he focused his attention on the pad. He wrote, "How long was I asleep/unconscious? What is my remaining recovery time? Why did they stitch my mouth shut?" in quick succession.

Mycroft: "You were asleep exactly two days. They expect you to need to stay at the hospital for another week then you can decide if we want to take you back to the flat. It's recommended that we don't but I don't want to take Mycroft's money more than necessary. We have already taken enough." John replied, chuckling at the claims of his mouth being stitched shut. "They only closed up the wounds. It may feel like you can't move your mouth because it's still numb but you can perfectly well. I heard you call my name, didn't I?"

"Will Lestrade + S. Y. come around?"

"He already came to question me. They obviously can't interrogate you while you are unconscious but once word gets around I bet he'll be here in an instant."

"How long have you been here and has Lestrade given you any cases to pass on to me?"

"I've been here as long as you have. Sorry about depriving myself of sleep." John finally let his smile fade, exhausting showing through. "No, Lestrade has been busy trying to track down where Moriarty went off to. After he asked me a few questions he decided we weren't going to be of much use and left us be."

"U should have slept. More logical than depriving yourself. Will lower your cognitive ability. & u can bring in the clowns if they can't find M."

"Yes, I've tried to sleep. Doesn't mean that my body complied. " Watson paused at the mention of a clown, shaking his head. "You should rest. We don't need the police coming in when you just woke up."

"I am ready. Waiting means more time for M to get away."

"Fine, but they only get an hour then you take a nap." John insisted, crossing his arms and standing up to look down at his injured flatmate.

Sherlock stared at John, trying to convey his disgust for the situation just through nonverbal eye contact. Without his voice, he was useless. Now how would he insult the Yard? Writing required literacy, and he wasn't sure Anderson fit the requirements.

Mycroft: "I'll be back in a few minutes. If you need anything there's a little bell that Mrs. Hudson brought." John gestured at said item, exiting the room to go retrieve the police.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John's retreating back. A bell, John? Really? But he could see the care and concern that Mrs. Hudson and John had for him. He supposed the word was ... touching. As in he recognized their worry. Odd. Even Mycroft, the person he had been closest to for the longest, had never been so loving toward him. Perhaps when he got home, he could lessen the amount of experiments that included human body parts.

John pressed his fingers against his temples, walking along with the three others as they chattered. "You look just terrible. How long has it been since you last slept?" Donovan pried, showing far more interest than Anderson. "All night with how Sherlock was moaning in his sleep. The puddles that he made on the ground with his saliva must not have helped." John glanced towards Anderson, not responding, he merely opening the door for them and allowed them to enter. He took his seat on the chair by Sherlock's bed, watching them vacantly.

"John told me that you wished to ask me questions regarding Moriarty. You may continue."

"Right, we got some anonymous information about the location of Moriarty. What we need to know is how exactly you got there and what happened." Anderson replied, looking positively uninterested in anything Sherlock had to say.

"What anonymous information? And" the pen paused "how exactly?"

"Someone phoned in. We weren't able to track the number." Donovan replied, reclining back against the wall.

"Right, says the victim of the incident." Anderson scoffed,rolling his eyes.

"Don't talk. The IQ of the entire wing halves."

"Nothing we haven't heard before. So are you going to give us your side of the story or not?"

Sherlock glared for a moment, then decided against written snarky comments. Taking up the pen again, he wrote, "A week ago, I blew up the flat (the experiment was an astounding success) and had to temporarily move out. I chose the Sunshine Motel, at the intersection of 3rd and Kensington. In Room 48, I found that my prearranged food had been drugged. Suspecting Moriarty, I attempted to leave. I was unsuccessful and the cab I had hailed was driven by one of his minions, who knocked me out with chloroform two streets away. I woke up in the warehouse you found me in. I was unable to free myself, and about 30 minutes after I woke, Moriarty entered the cell in which I was kept. 4 extremely unpleasant hours later, I was put into another cell. Apparently, the original cell was too stained to be of use anymore. 3 days of torture later, I was then forced to text to John, pretending that I had gone to the store and would be returning soon. John was captured soon after, and we were imprisoned together for 2 days. At the beginning of that time, my memory is hazy, and I have a vague recollection of John letting me fall asleep with him. The beginning of the last day, today, John helped free me. However, while he was attempting to help me escape indirectly, through gassing the guards, I was recaptured by Moriarty and he cut my face. I believe all of you know the rest of this tale. Responses?"

Donovan read over the information, glad that she didn't have to write it down herself. They had all been writing a lot lately since the incident. The group all eyed John as they read about him having slept with his flatmate. In his curiosity, Watson leaned forwards, reading it and quick to correct them. "I didn't sleep with him! He slept on the bed and I was om the floor."

Sherlock almost smirked, before he remembered his facial ... problems and schooled his face into a more neutral expression. Grabbing another sheet of paper, he wrote, "Donovan/Anderson. Match made in idiot heaven." before holding it up to take the attention off John.

John read over it, snatching away the piece of paper and tossing it in the trash. "You were the one that wanted them here. You best not complain. He wasn't in the best of moods, hiding it surprisingly well compared to his exhaustion. Watson kept an eye on the clock, waiting for the hour to pass so he could shoo the officers away.

"Any other questions?" Sherlock wrote, simultaneously tearing off a scrap of paper and seemingly doodling on it. It was a note, saying "not cmplainng. trying 2 get u off hot seat." He slipped it into John's hand.

"No, that's about all we needed to know. Also I would like to congratulate you, the whole not speaking thing is a giant improvement." Anderson replied, tucking the information Sherlock has written down into a pocket and starting out the door with Donovan. Only after they had left did John speak up. "Right, getting me off when you were the one that had placed me on it in the first place. How considerate."

"So you did fall asleep with me! I was unsure. And when will I be able to move my mouth? I want to communicate fully."

"I never slept with you at all! Stop assuming you can read everything. You were the one who had claimed I slept with you in the first place, when I never did. That's what I meant." John huffed, ignoring Sherlock's question.

"Irrelevant now. When will I be able to speak/eat/use my mouth w/ full mobility?"

"... With or without pain?"

"Preferably without, but pain will not deter me, if no further damage is done."

"For it not to be likely to rip and without pain, at least several years. For you to use it with pain and possibility of reopening, at best eight months."

Sherlock stared. Eight months? A few years, if he decided to avoid pain? Grabbing the pen and paper, he scribbled "Who told U?"

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I don't need to be told everything. I'm..." John bowed his head, recollecting his breath before returning his gaze to his flatmate. "I'm not useless."

"Apologies." Sherlock stared at the paper, in essence reviewing the conversation. Deciding, for once, to honor John's feelings, he continued. "Didn't mean to imply U are useless. Assumed a doctor more skilled in non-combat wounds judged my injuries."

Mycroft: "... Right, sorry. I'm being over sensitive again, aren't I? Yeah, I am." John brushed some of his fingers through his hair, refusing himself to forgive Sherlock because he couldn't even allow himself to believe he was at fault. This was all his fault. He had even just lied to Sherlock. It was for his own good but it wasn't easy.

"It is perfectly acceptable. Anyone who just came through what you did would react or act differently."

"God, I just..." John shook his head, pacing a few times before stopping next to Sherlock. "I can't do that again. One person I can kill. But that was asking for me to go back to who I was in the war and I don't want to do that. I just can't."

Sherlock hesitated. Feelings weren't his strong suit. "Whatever happened, we're both safe. And whoever you killed, elected to serve Moriarty. You had to kill them to escape."

"I know that. Have you ever heard about how soldiers stay up at night? Well, there's a reason for that. It's not because of how hard it is to kill. It's because it's easy, Sherlock! I took lives and it was easy. They could have families and lives yet I did it with a simple pull of the trigger." John sank back into his seat, head in his hands. "I'm even having nightmares again. They went away when I met you."

"If you are having nightmares, don't ask me for advice. Ask a licensed psychiatrist." Sherlock stared at his writing. John would most likely get angry at the suggestion of talking to someone other than his sociopathic flatmate. Yet Sherlock's advice was the most mentally helpful. He showed John his answer.

Mycroft: "I'm not going to another one. Last time I went to one was..." John shook his head, standing up and starting towards the door. "Doesn't matter. You need to sleep. Just, go on and sleep."

"I have slept quite enough recently. I want to return to the flat."

John heard the rustling of paper, turning around. "You aren't going back to the flat. No, not in your state. You have to be fed through a tube for God's sake!"

Sherlock hesitated. He had deleted that information subconsciously. He nodded affirmation. At least he could deduce all the nurses - but he couldn't annoy them. Not with his mouth stitched shut. He felt...loneliness? No, that was ridiculous, emotions were symbols of the losing side. But hadn't he lost? Hadn't Moriarty gotten away? Stop wallowing in self-recrimination, Sherlock. He snapped back to the present, and the non-mind-palace world. He nodded again and retreated to the bed, lying on top of the sheets and staring at the ceiling.

Mycroft: John looked over Sherlock, some pity falling over him. The detective had always had problems with boredom, and now he wasn't allowed to do anything but lay around in bed. "You need me to bring you anything? A puzzle or your phone or something?"

Sherlock bounded up, grabbing the pen and paper and scribbling, "My skull, my phone. Quickly" then after a pause, "please."

"Your skull... But you can't even talk. Why do you want that?" John asked, befuddled by Sherlock's thought process. "Know what, doesn't matter." He waved his confusion, starting out the door to go get some groceries, update Mrs. Hudson he was awake so she could finish, and return with the requires items.

Eight months. Sherlock started pacing. Eight months until he could annoy people, speak, eat, get out of a hospital where they'd make him eat and sleep...And Mycroft would probably visit and scare all the nurses...Oh well. At least he could amuse himself by hacking Lestrade's phone or the Scotland Yard website and leave anonymous tips...

John tucked the groceries under one arm, unlocking the door with his free hand and entering the flat. "Mrs Hudson, I got you that kind of tea you wanted." He called out, placing the tin of Earl Gray on the floor next to the stair and he padded up them. He entered the living room, finding it a mess as usual. "Sherlock, would it kill you to clean up after yourself for once? You'll give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack."

Sherlock looked up from the bloodstains on cloth under the microscope. Grabbing his phone he sent a text with one hand.

Sherlock: Unlikely that she'd have a heart attack: no prior history. -SH

"No reason to risk it." John returned after checking his phone, moving to look down at the cloth. "New case or an experiment? Either one you could do at the morgue and not make a mess here."

Sherlock: New case. Can't do it at the morgue: got banned for beating corpses. -SH

"Again? Honestly, Molly wouldn't report you. The only way you could get found out was by being too loud. Can't imagine you ever doing that though." John moved towards the fridge to place the groceries inside, not wanting to risk them spoiling.

Sherlock: I accidentally broke one open. It was old and burst. -SH

"You what? You don't just do that. You would have heard the gases held inside start to hiss first then... You just ignored it, didn't you?"

Sherlock: No. It broke in half lengthways. I was testing to see if the bruising patterns were consistent with those on a woman who had seemingly died after being thrown across a room forcefully by her abusive ex-boyfriend. -SH

"... That isn't an easy thing to do. I shouldn't be surprised by now. I really shouldn't." John let out a long sigh, placing the final item in the refrigerator and returning to Sherlock. "Just clean up once you're done. I'm not doing it for you again."

Sherlock nodded, bending over his microscope again. After a moment or two of intense scrutiny, he leapt off the chair and punched the air. "Hah! Knew -" he cut himself off, re-grabbing his phone and sending a rushed text.

Sherlock: found bldstains tht prove mrderr is type o blood HAH -SH

Mycroft: "Which would mean...? I haven't been able to keep up with a case you started this morning when I have been at work all day." John stepped back at Sherlock's excitement, glad to see that he was still being cautious of his wounds.

Watson: 3 suspects. 1 sample of blood. no dna. 2 blood types a ab o. this is o. HAH -SH

Sherlock covered his mouth lightly with a hand. The beginnings of his triumphal shout had been stifled hurriedly, but the left corner of his mouth had torn slightly. It didn't hurt too much, but it was annoying. If John saw, he'd probably play the worried mother and drag Sherlock back to the hospital. Conclusion: try to hide the tearing. Get back to The Work.

"Yes, well... Will you be telling Lestrade or should I call him?" Watson eyes Sherlock with concern, seeing nothing out of the ordinary so he took back to tidying up the flat a little. Sherlock most certainly wasn't going to do it.

"Took care of it. Coming? -SH" Sherlock dashed out a quick text, half-running to his room, changing as he went to his suit. A quick comb through the hair later, and he dashed out the door grabbing his phone and coat along the way.

"Ah, where? Sherlock, I have things to..." John let out a long sigh, grabbing a coat as well and rushing after him. Looks like he would have to try to interrogate Sherlock on the way.

Sherlock looked down at the phone, texting swiftly. "Scotland Yard. They have evidence I haven't seen yet. -SH" He snapped the phone closed, effectively gagging himself. He was slightly (surprised/disappointed/unhappy) that John hadn't noticed the slight tear yet. Emotion was weakness, Sherlock. Stop feeling. No cabs were stopping...oh. Because he couldn't call for them. He hated this new feeling of being helpless. He sent a pleading look at John.

"Evidence? But didn't you just finish the case?" John looked baffled, shaking his confusion off and looking over at Sherlock and noticed his problem. He threw up a hand calling, "Taxi!" One was quick to respond, pulling over so the two could slide into the back seats. "Scotland Yard." John commanded, settling back against the seat as the cab took off.

"Yes. Two arm cuts were necessary to hold him up. Large one was art: had to be perfect: for effect. -SH" He texted to Donovan and John, moving to look at the blood smears. A footprint! But...too small for a 6'1'' man. Almost...two people had been involved! One was male, 6'1'', right-handed, trained for torture or killing. The other was smaller (smaller feet but not by much) perhaps 5'9'. He had fought with the taller one (scuff marks in the blood, was slightly weaker (had been pushed back by the other), but was also trained for this (had also pushed the other back). They were fairly evenly matched (no dead bodies) and worked together (or else one would have been bound if he'd been a prisoner) but had a serious falling-out over...what? It had been after the man had died: perhaps they disagreed over how or if to kill the man. They'd left together (parallel sets of footprints leading out) so they were still together...and one, the other, or both were wounded, one more seriously than the other: more blood had been splattered in one place (one wound) than the others. Why did they stay together if they'd just tried to kill each other? Perhaps they were partners that needed each other (likely, they were well-matched). Or did one hire the other? Less likely, a master/servant relationship wouldn't allow a fight to the death. Sherlock stood. "Search for two men, heights 5'9'' and 6'1'', one right-handed, other ambidextrous, together, bickering, associate w/ criminals. Equal relationship. Neither dominant. -SH" he texted to Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade, and John. Lestrade grabbed his phone, back at Scotland Yard, and celebrated inwardly. Sherlock had narrowed their field of inquiry considerably. However... "Why 2? -GL" he texted Sherlock. Lestrade got an answer within minutes. "2 sets footprints. 2 sets blood splashes (not Ross's). -SH"

Sherlock crouched over the body. Female, 27, lived in the south quarter of the industry side of London, recently divorced, was walking home from a late party when she was raped and murdered 2 blocks away from her rented hotel room, one of a spate of rape-and-murders around the city...She was lying on her face. Sherlock, having deduced all he could from her back, grabbed her shoulder and turned her over, ignoring Anderson's probable protestations.

Two cuts, freshly made, went from the corners of her mouth to her cheekbones. Sherlock knew firsthand what sort of pain she had been in...He could almost feel the blade sliding through his own flesh, see Moriarty's grinning face, laughing at his shrieks of pain...Moriarty...was right there...advancing on him...Kill! Sherlock lunged at Anderson, yelling insanely.

Mycroft has read the report, knowing fully well the result on Sherlock wouldn't be good. No matter how he may had denied it, the older Holmes understood his brother very well. He always had his better interests in mind, sometimes for the sake of his own appearance sometimes not. It all depended on the circumstances. This time, just as he walked into the room his younger brother had begun to misbehave. He grabbed his umbrella, using the hook to grab Sherlock by the collar. "My, my... I understand your dislike for Anderson but that is hardly the way to behave."

Something was constricting his windpipe. One of Moriarty's minions! A quick elbow to the ribs, hook of an ankle, and right cross to the head later, and the thug was down. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The knives he'd hidden in his coat seemed to weigh him down. Snatching them out of the hidden pockets in the inside of his coat, he faced Moriarty, teeth bared. The man who'd mutilated his face and kidnapped John would pay. Shrugging off the damage done to the thug on the ground behind him, he flung himself toward Moriarty once more, knocking his opponent to the ground.

Mycroft almost chuckled as Sherlock struggled to hit him, ducking back as a blow was sent flying at his head. In return, he tugged on the umbrella holding back Sherlock, sending him crashing to the ground. He looked up towards Anderson, motioning towards the door. "Would you leave us? I have this perfectly handled." The older brother glanced down towards Sherlock, standing over him. "Sherlock Holmes, clear your head so that maybe you can recognize your very own brother. You attack me again and I'm going to be quite ticked."

Sherlock struggled, panicking. His mind was clouded, the thug had defeated him. But...the thug was...Mycroft? He redoubled his struggles, jumping up and looking wildly around. "Mycroft! Where's Moriarty?"

"Calm yourself, Sherlock. I can lead you to him, just follow me." Mycroft offered for Sherlock to follow, taking him the back way to avoid encountering anyone

Sherlock nodded, thoughts racing. Why'd Mycroft suddenly appear? Was Mycroft working with Moriarty? No, his brother would never do such a thing. Mycroft had probably knocked out that thug and was now helping Sherlock find Moriarty to...what? Kill him? Or...torture him to death? Which one? Wrapped in dark thoughts, Sherlock followed his big brother trustingly, looking slightly up and asking, "Where is he?"

"A simple car ride away." Mycroft assured, approaching a black care. The door was opened for him, fully planning on allowing Sherlock to enter first. To get out he would have to get through him. Sherlock would never dare do such a thing.

Sherlock hesitated. Did Mycroft not trust him? Distrust was the only reason Mycroft wouldn't turn his back on Sherlock...Whatever it took to get to Moriarty. That spider...he'd have to squash it slowly...let its innards spurt...Dark smile curling his lips, Sherlock ducked his head and slid into the car, turning his head and grinning insanely at Mycroft. "Excellent. I'm ready."

"Yes, I can tell." Mycroft entered after Sherlock, watching the door be shut. The car started, pulling out and driving away. He was heading home, where he would place Sherlock somewhere where he wouldn't hurt himself or others. Then he was left with the task of contacting John to come pick him up.

Sherlock watched the scenery go by, recognizing each building. After about a block, he realized that they were heading toward 221B. If Mycroft was telling the truth (of course) then Moriarty was at the flat...where John probably was. Shit. He turned to Mycroft. "Is John safe?" he asked, panicking slightly again.

"There was no Moriarty, Sherlock. I fear for your mental health and am returning you home where John can watch you." Mycroft informed, opening the door and blocking the exit. "Now, are you going to be good?"

Sherlock's head snapped around. "WHAT?! You lied to me?!"

"Brother dear, look at this logically. What if your mind was failing you?" Mycroft flashed him a smile, looking a little too smug.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "If that happened...I'd want you to lock me away. Without my mind, I'm nothing."

"Precisely. Now come without a fight, wouldn't you?" Mycroft took a step back, waiting for Sherlock to exit

"So...my mind has snapped...Took you this long to notice?" Sherlock looked up, hungry gleam in his eyes.

"I haven't really had the opportunity to observe you lately. Work has kept me busy. Now come on so we can get you inside." Mycroft watched Sherlock carefully, not wanting to let his guard down just yet.

"Your work? Not very brotherly of you, to ignore your broken little brother for your country." Sherlock spat the last word, seemingly furious. "I'm not going anywhere with a liar."

"I lied for your own sake. Now, Sherlock Holmes, get out of there!" Mycroft hissed, narrowing his eyes to slits.

Watson: Sherlock leapt out of the car, pushing Mycroft away and dashing down the street: in his mind, Moriarty had been found and he had to find him...and kill.

7:15 PM

Mycroft used his umbra, catching one of Sherlock's legs and watching him land face first in the concrete. "Sherlock Holmes, since when I have I ever done anything to harm you? Your mind is failing you, stop and think!"

Sherlock growled. "Double-oh-seven, fatty!" he shouted.

"You weren't supposed to ever tell her. How should I have known she was seducing you into telling her when you don't tell me anything?"

"I have feelings, too!" Sherlock's eyes widened. He hadn't meant to give so much away. Hoping to divert attention from his mistake, he rolled to the side and ran down the pavement once more.

"Feelings?" Mycroft scoffed, taking a few steps after him before shrugging. No reason to be discrete. He called John on his cell and brought it up to his ear.

Sherlock frowned as he ran. Where might Moriarty be? Probably where he'd kidnapped Sherlock: two streets away from the flat, in a deserted office building. Sherlock diverted his course to the most efficient path there.

Mycroft scowled, pulling the phone away at the way the phone tried to think he would leave a message, instead texting, Where are you? It's an emergency. -MH

Watson: Why? -JM

Mycroft: Ah, Jim. Always a pleasure. -MH

Watson: Likewise. How's your dear brother? -JM

Mycroft: Stubborn, as always. -MH

Watson: Isn't he? He refused to scream for me, the little brat. -JM

Mycroft: Yes, well lets get past the formalities. I will ask you to release John only once. -MH

Watson: Why should I? :) -JM

Mycroft: He watches Sherlock so I don't have to. -MH

Watson: Hmpf. I watch Sherlock too...XD -JM

Mycroft: Not in the way I appreciate. -MH

Watson: Awww...Let me have my fun! :( -JM

Mycroft: Don't force my hand. Even you know what a bad idea that is. -MH

Watson: Ha. Why would I be afraid of a bureaucrat addicted to cookies? -JM

Mycroft: Don't listen to my warning and you'll quickly figure out why. -MH

Watson: Hah. Wanna dance? Though little Johnny and baby Sherly might get in the way...-JM

Mycroft: My brother will not bother us. -MH

Watson: True...I've got him locked away...little Johnny might trip you up, though. XD -JM

Mycroft: He is quite persistent. -MH

Watson: He is that. He keeps asking after his little boyfriend...-JM

Mycroft: So you have Sherlock as well? -MH

Watson: Oh, yes. He's quite the screamer. -JM

Mycroft: Excellent. I'm on my way. -MH

Watson: Hmph. I don't care. :P -JM

Mycroft closed his phone, stuffing it into his pocket and returning to the car. He had made sure to place a tracker on Sherlock before he had run off. Only a matter of precaution that had proven to be useful.

Moriarty snapped the phone closed. The Ice Man was too predictable...he'd probably send his minions over, not wanting to risk his "high position in the British government." How boring. Moriarty's and Mycroft's minions fighting...at least he'd been able to deal directly with the Virgin. His older brother was entirely too detached. Moriarty turned back to John, tied to a chair, and the man standing behind. "Stop the Ice Man's minions. Whatever it takes." The man nodded and ran out of the room. Bring it, Mycroft.

Mycroft flicked open his phone, about to call out his agents before pausing. No, Moriarty expected that. Time to do something new. "Anthea, I need you to come down. Yes, bring some of your inferiors as well. We are going to attempt to arrest Jim Moriarty in the act of kidnap."

Sherlock dashed into the building, immediately slowing. Moriarty would have agents everywhere...he had to be careful. Slinking around pillars, staying in the shadows, he looked like an overgrown black cat. He froze...someone was in the room with him. Twisting to check his back, his eyes narrowed and he slunk into the deepest shadows.

Mycroft gave her an address, listening as she alerted him of when they would be there. Excellent, right before him. "I'll see you there. Make sure to alert them to the situation and my plan. Yes, code blue, level seven." He shut the phone down and settling back in his seat. He had two weapons in his command, the umbrella and a small pistol. He was far more proficient with the umbrella, despite it not being made for combat.

Moriarty paced the room, holding a monologue with the only other occupant. "...so, of course he died quickly, but before he fell, he -" "I am not interested." The other interrupted. "You will carry out this plan precisely. I expect nothing less." "Of course. I will perform admirably." The other nodded. This man was a mad dog who needed a firm hand on the leash. Waste of a good mind, this one. If Moriarty had been born into his service...He interrupted the unproductive chain of thought. "That man, what was it, Mycroft, is coming. Prepare." Moriarty nodded, the closest he ever came to a bow. "I have...sir. All is ready for his arrival." "Excellent."

Mycroft pulled into the abandoned lot, his men swarming the area like good little ants. That would make him off to be the mother... He quickly discarded that analogy, exiting the car as it was opened by none other than Anthea. "I want the place on lockdown. No one gets in or out without my word, is that clear?"


End file.
